


Needlepoint

by lbswasp



Series: Elegance Cannot Kill a Man [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Affection, F/M, First Time, Fix-It, Loss of Virginity, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa is smart, Season/Series 07, Season/Series 08, The Princess Bride References, Virzeth Veri, Wedding Night, fuck D&D honestly, gratuitous use of dragons, lemoncakes, let's fix some shit, lots of direwolves, nothing meant anything, what the actual fuck was this season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-03-08 12:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 79,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18894730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbswasp/pseuds/lbswasp
Summary: The Seven Kingdoms are fractured, broken and torn. There is a King in the North, a Queen in the East, and a Queen on the Iron Throne. The dead threaten the living, and the long night approaches.Can Sansa Stark stitch together the realms before it's too late?This retelling of Seasons 7 and 8 features a Sansa who is strong and smart, a Tyrion who will fight tooth and claw for his happiness, and a Daenerys who has more relatives than she thought.Updates Saturdays!





	1. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa looked at Tyrion, a question in her eyes. It tore at Tyrion’s heart, but he nodded that she should go. Reunite with her brother.
> 
> There would be time for them yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I just finished season 8 and...well, shit. 
> 
> I honestly feel like the last 8 years have been a waste. So many interesting plot points, utterly glossed over and meaningless. Although I was cheering for Sansa at the end, I spent the final episode just saying "what the fuck?" in increasingly baffled tones.
> 
> So I'm writing my own version. 
> 
> (it can't be worse than theirs)
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S06E02 ‘Home’ (though I couldn’t work in “don’t eat the help”, which is one of my favourite lines) and S08E01 ‘Winterfell’.
> 
> The part about Northern cloaks helping their wearer look imposing comes from astolat’s fic Travelling Far, which is a great Brienne/Jaime fic (it makes me regret that I’ve decided to go with Brienne/Tormund for this fic).

“Sansa?” breathed Jon, crossing the floor in rapid steps as he moved towards his long-lost sister and swept her up in a fierce hug, lifting her clear off the ground. Sansa’s eyes closed as she clung to her brother.

Tyrion looked at the Queen, who had a smile on her face as she watched the two Starks reunite, and a hint of wistfulness too. _Of course,_ he thought. _All her family is dead, and there is little hope of any of them appearing out of the North for a reunion. Not even Maester Aemon remains, and he was her…_ His mind whirled as he tried to trace the half-remembered Targaryen family tree. It had been important knowledge, once. _Great uncle? I should brush up on the Targaryen family tree again,_ he thought. _Just in case._

Clearing his head of thoughts of dead Targaryens, Tyrion looked back at his wife and his friend, still clinging to each other. He tried to work out how long it had been since they’d seen each other — he’d been there when they’d parted, after all. It had been over two years, nearly three since Jaime had sent him to The Wall, and he’d been married to Sansa for over three years before then. So that made it...seven, maybe even eight years since Sansa and Jon had seen each other in person.

Seven Hells, until now, Jon hadn’t known Sansa was still alive. None of them had.

 _Bran probably knew,_ thought Tyrion. _Damn him for not saying anything!_

The two siblings clung to each other for so long that the direwolf that had preceded Sansa lay down with a huff by their feet.

The sound made Sansa break away from Jon, who gently placed her back on her feet.

“Oh, Jon,” said Sansa, holding his face. “How are you-? Why are you here? King of the North? What in the name of the Old Gods and the New has happened?”

Jon chuckled. “I could ask you the same thing. How are you here? Serving, if I am not mistaken, as Hand to a Targaryen Queen?”

Sansa moved to take his arm, and Tyrion could indeed see the badge of office on his wife’s shirt. “It is a long story, Jon. Come, I’ll tell it to you over wine and a good meal. Your Grace, if we may?” she said, belatedly turning to the Queen.

“Of course, Virzeth Veri. I’ll have better rooms made up for your brother and his party now that we know he’s the real King in the North and not an imposter.”

“Your Grace,” said Jon. “Forgive me, but there is much for us to speak of.”

“Indeed there is, your Grace,” said the Queen, “but nothing so urgent it won’t wait until tomorrow. Go. Reunite with your sister. Tomorrow we shall have a council, a proper one, and we shall discuss what needs to be discussed.”

Jon nodded, a grateful smile on his lips, while Sansa looked at Tyrion, a question in her eyes. It tore at Tyrion’s heart, but he nodded that she should go. Spend time with her brother.

There would be time for them yet.

* * *

Sunrise the next morning saw Tyrion standing on a bluff, watching as the dragons whirled and shrieked below, often diving into the ocean and emerging with sizeable fish.

He was fairly sure the black one had just caught a whale.

He looked out over the horizon, and sighed. He’d lain awake all night, tossing and turning, and eventually he’d given up on sleep. He’d come outside to try and muster his thoughts into some semblance of order.

With the wind tugging at his curls and his thick winter cloak, he thought he probably looked suitably wild and Northern and pensive. He’d always thought these Northern cloaks were designed solely to make the wearer look more impressive, but they were beautifully warm. And helped him look _almost_ imposing.

A sudden flurry of movement caught his eye, and the direwolf he’d seen last night streaked past him to a flat area further along the bluff. One of the dragons, the cream and gold one, let out a shriek and dived towards the direwolf. Just when Tyrion thought the dragon was about to have itself a furry snack, the direwolf flopped over and bared their stomach, while the dragon flew low over head and let out a small snort of flame.

The direwolf yipped, scrambled back to their feet, and then took off.

It took Tyrion a few moments, but then he realised: they were playing tag.

“It’s amusing to watch, isn’t it?” said a soft voice behind him, and Tyrion turned.

Sansa was there, the wind whipping at her cloak and hair, and Tyrion had never seen anything so fantastic in his life. The last two years had been good to her. She looked strong, elegant, and powerful, and he felt his cock give a throb of want. The bells ringing in her hair helped remind him that this wasn’t the young girl he’d married, and he did his best to rein in his base thoughts.

“Lyanna was fascinated with the dragons right from the start. I was terrified that she’d work out how to get into the dragonpit and become a snack, but fortunately Viserion took a liking to her. They play often now.”

Sansa stepped closer and Tyrion caught the faint smell of lemons. He smiled to himself, glad that some things hadn’t changed.

Then what Sansa had said registered, and he blanched. “Lyanna?”

“Yes?” said Sansa, clearly puzzled. “My direwolf. The cream and gold dragon is Viserion, the green Rhaegal. The black is Drogon, and he has the worst temper. He’s Daenerys’ personal mount, and vicious too. The other too are a bit nicer, though they are still dragons. No one should ever mistake them for being nice.”

“Your direwolf is called Lyanna,” said Tyrion, still stuck on that point but making sure to tuck the names of the dragons away in a safe part of his mind. “Oh, she’s going to be insufferable when she finds out.”

“Who?”

“Our Lyanna. Lyanna Mormont, the Lady of Bear Island. She’s a ferocious little thing — barely ten-and-one and more than able to shame a grown lord for not doing his duty to his king.”

“She sounds like Arya.”

“She’s a combination of you both, my lady. She’s going to be a terror when she grows up.”

They shared a smile, and stood watching the direwolf and dragon play. Tyrion wanted to speak — he wanted to try and make things right between them — but he didn’t know how or where to start.

It had been so long, and so much had happened since.

Eventually, it seemed that Lyanna had tired of her game with Viserion, and she trotted towards them, her tail held proudly like a banner. She stopped and sat at Sansa’s feet, her head tilted to the side as she looked at Tyrion.

“Lyanna, meet Tyrion,” said Sansa. “Tyrion, reach out your hand for her to sniff. Don’t worry, she’s just a baby. She won’t hurt you.”

 _She’s damn near bigger than I am!_ thought Tyrion, but did as he was bid.

Lyanna leaned forward and sniffed Tyrion’s hand. Her tail thumped against the ground, twice, and before he knew what was happening her tongue was all over his face.

“LYANNA!” cried Sansa, reaching down to haul her back while Tyrion tried to wipe off his face with his sleeve. “Back to the castle, immediately!”

Soft fabric touched his face, and Tyrion realised that Sansa was helping wipe off his face with her skirt. “I’m so sorry, my lord. She’s normally much better behaved than that.”

When Tyrion could see again without fear of direwolf drool in his eyes, he attempted a smile. “It’s okay, my lady. I’ve spent enough time with Ghost to know that no matter how long a direwolf is with a Stark, it is still a wild animal.”

A shadow swooped overhead, and they both looked up.

* * *

Viserion hit the ground with a thump, and came over to inspect them. Sansa kept very still, and she could feel Tyrion freeze behind her as well as the enormous dragon loomed over them, bright eyes peering at them down it’s long nose.

“Good morning, Viserion. Have you met Tyrion? He comes to us as part of my brother’s party.”

The dragon didn’t seem to respond, and slowly Tyrion inched his way around Sansa. 

“I didn’t know they could talk,” he breathed, clearly awed.

“If they can, they haven’t spoken to me,” said Sansa softly. “But I figure I may as well be polite. My mother would rise from the grave and murder me herself if she thought I was being rude when I could be polite.”

The pain of losing her mother was softer now, more like an old wound than a fresh one. But it still hurt. She still missed Catelyn Stark every single day. _I wonder what mother would have thought of me now,_ she wondered. _I hope she’d be proud._

Viserion lowered his great head, his eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring, as he looked between Sansa and Tyrion.

And then nudged Sansa’s side with his head.

“Not now!”

He nudged her again.

“I’m trying to introduce you to someone, could you try and be dignified at least once in your life?” Sansa said, exasperated.

Viserion nudged her again, and Sansa sighed.

“If it’s squished it’s because of your big head, you great lummox,” she said, reaching into a pocket and withdrawing a slightly squishy bundle. She could feel Tyrion’s curious gaze on her as she opened it, revealing a squashed and oversized lemon cake. Viserion opened his great jaws and carefully plucked the cake out of the cloth before throwing his head back and eating it with evident delight.

“...Dragons eat lemoncakes?”

Sansa laughed. “This one does. One night when we were in Meereen I was missing home, and I tried to make some. Except I got it wrong, somehow, and they were terribly burned. When I came into the courtyard to throw them out the next morning, Viserion was there playing with Lyanna, and they came over to investigate. Lyanna was uninterested, but Viserion gobbled them up and then bugged me for more every time he saw me after that.”

“You tamed a dragon with lemoncakes.”

“I didn’t _tame_ him. No one other than a Targaryen can tame a dragon. We’ve just come to an accord, that’s all. I give him lemoncakes, and he doesn’t set me on fire.”

A rumble came from Viserion, who once again nudged Sansa’s side with his head.

“No, I’m all out, and if you want another one ever again you’ll hold still and let Tyrion greet you,” she said firmly.

Tyrion stepped forward and slowly approached Viserion. 

“Hello, Viserion,” he said. “I’m a friend of Sansa’s. And hopefully, a friend of your mother’s, in time. I’m sorry I don’t have any lemoncakes, but hopefully, you’ll forgive me for this this time.”

Viserion titled his great head so he could keep an eye on Tyrion as he approached, but otherwise made no movement.

“I didn’t realise dragons liked human food. None of my books ever mentioned it. I read so many books about dragons when I was even smaller than I was now, and I so desperately wanted to see one. When I was a small child, my uncle asked me what gift I wanted for my Name Day. It was the first time he’d visited us in many years, you see, and he hadn’t known that no one ever got me gifts for my Name Day.”

Sansa closed her eyes in pain. She’d known that Tyrion’s family had been cruel to him, but she hadn’t expected that.

 _Does that mean...was the book I gave him his first ever Name Day gift?_ she wondered. _I hope he was able to keep it safe somehow._

“I thought, this was my only chance. I may as well ask for something wonderful, and so I begged him for one of you. ‘It wouldn’t even have to be a big dragon!’ I told him. ‘It could be little, like me.’ Everyone laughed, like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. And then my father told me that the last dragon had died a century ago. I cried myself to sleep that night.”

He carefully reached out a hand and laid his palm on Viserion’s neck. His face...Sansa didn’t know how to describe the expression on his face. It was awe and joy and wonder and remembered pain, all rolled into one.

“And yet, here you are. Here _three_ of you are. Oh, you are wondrous, aren’t you?” he asked, gently running his hand over Viserion’s scales.

Sansa had petted Viserion several times by now (the dragon could smell a lemoncake a mile away, it seemed), and yet every time she still felt wonder that she was touching a living, breathing dragon. The feel of the dry scales, warm with inner fire, was a feeling like no other. _Even if he is blatantly using our fascination with him to get more bloody lemoncakes._

Viserion turned his neck slightly, baring the back of his head to Tyrion, who looked back at Sansa with confusion clear on his face.

“He wants you to scratch him,” she said. “He likes being scratched behind his horns.”

Tyrion’s eyes got even bigger, but he dutifully lifted his hand up and started to scratch behind Viserion’s horns. The cream and gold dragon’s eyes slid closed in obvious pleasure, and Sansa was hard pressed not to giggle at the look of glee on Tyrion’s face.

 _Honestly,_ thought Sansa, _I’m not sure which of them is enjoying that the most._

Eventually, Viserion decided he had received enough scratches. He stepped back, shook his head at Tyrion, and with one last forlorn sniff at Sansa’s empty pockets, took to the sky.

Tyrion stepped back, not yet used to bracing himself for the buffeting wind that the dragons created when they took flight, and as Viserion climbed into the sky he slowly walked back to Sansa.

He looked utterly poleaxed. 

_He’s so cute like that,_ she thought. And then paused. It had been a long time since she’d seen her husband in person, yet in that time, she’d had many dreams about him. As recently as last night, in fact.

 _And now you know he’s still good with his hands,_ a sly voice at the back of her head said. _Remember how good his neck rubs were? And how happy Viserion seemed just now? Imagine where else he could touch you._

Sansa shook her head to try and chase the thoughts away, and reached down to take Tyrion’s hands. She couldn’t help herself. “You never thought that would happen, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” he admitted, looking up at her. “Last time we spoke it was at Joffrey’s wedding. Miserable affair.”

“Oh, it had its moments,” quipped Sansa with a smile, before becoming more serious. “My lord, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion said at the same time.

Sansa couldn’t understand it. “Why are you sorry? I abandoned you, and left you to be framed for murder! I knew Joffrey was going to die and I did nothing to stop it! I’m the one who is sorry.”

Tyrion ran his thumbs over the back of her hands in a soothing motion. “I’m sorry because I wasn’t the husband you deserved. I kept you at King’s Landing, when you so clearly wanted to be anywhere else. I didn’t fight for you as I should have. I ignored you, and I was jealous when you took a lover, and I never treated you well.”

_What? A lover? Me?_

“My lord,” sighed Sansa, “I don’t know where to start with that. You treated me well. Very well. You were kind and honourable and intelligent and caring, and I have missed you dearly. But I never took a lover. I’ve never taken a lover. By the Seven, how did you come up with that idea?”

“But...Littlefinger said…”

“Littlefinger? My lord, although I barely knew him, even I knew that Littlefinger would never tell the truth if he could tell a lie instead. Besides, even if I had a lover, which I didn’t, you had mistresses yourself!”

“No I didn’t!”

“But your father said…”

Tyrion shook his head. “My father never saw me for who I was, Sansa. He always saw me as the demon who killed his wife. Since our marriage I have known no other. I have been faithful to you, always.”

“And I’ve been faithful to you. Oh, gods, what idiots we’ve been. So convinced we knew what the other was doing and thinking and feeling!” Sansa shook her head. “We need to have a talk. A long talk. Probably several. There are so many things I now realise I was wrong about when we got married. I was a silly little girl who couldn’t see you for who you were.”

“I’ve said it before, and I will say it again Sansa: you were gently raised. It was not your fault. But you’re a woman grown now, and it shows in the way you move, the way you hold yourself, and in the jewellery you now wear.” He nodded at her chest, where the Badge of the Hand was pinned. It was almost the only jewellery she wore these days — the Badge, and sometimes the Dothraki bells woven into her hair. She still had the jewels he’d given her, carefully carried from Westeros to Braavos to Meereen and now back to Westeros. Maybe she would wear them again. For him. For her. For them both.

“I was a drunken lout who didn’t appreciate what I had until it was gone,” Tyrion continued. “I was too focused on my family and the misery they were causing me and the kingdom to really realise what they were doing to you.”

“You sound like you’ve had a lot of time to think about this, my lord.”

“The Wall gives a man a lot of time to think, and to reflect, and to realise that you were trying to say goodbye that night, weren’t you?”

“I was, my lord. Tyrion,” she admitted. “I knew if I’d told you what was going to happen, you’d’ve tried to stop it. To save Joffrey. And...Joffrey deserved to die. He deserved to die for the things he’d done. For my father. So I kept silent, rather than ask you to abandon your family.”

“I would have...I could have…”

“No, Tyrion. I know you. You’re almost a Tully in your loyalty to your family. You wouldn’t have, and you couldn’t have done anything. I knew that, and I knew you. I didn’t want to stop Joffrey’s death, and although I wanted to tell you, I knew you’d stop it. Or try to stop it, and your sister would just cast all the blame on you. So I kept silent, and I said goodbye. Tried to say goodbye.”

Tyrion sighed. “He was an evil little shit, wasn’t he? I should feel sorry that he’s gone — he was my nephew — but I couldn’t even dredge up appropriate mourning for him at the time, let alone all these years later. I’m sorry that it happened, but I understand why you didn’t tell me. You’re right, I probably would have tried to do something brave and noble and it would have gone to shit once Cersei knew about it.”

“I’m still sorry, Tyrion. I’m sorry for my part in the death of your nephew, and for the years we’ve wasted.”

Tyrion smiled softly at her. “I forgive you. I don’t think you need forgiving, but I forgive you regardless. And Sansa, I’m sorry as well. Despite what you say I was a terrible husband, and I should have treated you better. So much better. Do you forgive me?”

Sansa smiled, and sank to her knees. Slowly she raised her hands from his, and cradled his face with her hands. She looked at him, her gaze steady, and saw nerves in his eyes.

 _His eyes are so beautiful,_ she thought. _I’ve never seen eyes that green before._

Before she could talk herself out of it, Sansa leaned in to kiss him.

* * *

Tyrion's mind went blank. He'd touched a dragon, which he’d thought was the most wondrous thing he’d ever experienced.

But now Sansa was kneeling in front of him, her hands on his face, and she was leaning in as if to kiss him.

He was barely breathing, frightened that he’d wake up and it would all be a dream. That in fact he’d never touched a dragon, never felt Sansa’s hands on his skin. That he’d awake and be back at The Wall, freezing his cock off.

Except he didn’t think he’d imagine a cream and gold dragon — in his dreams, they’d always been black like Balerion the Dread. And he certainly had never imagined his gentle wife having calloused hands.

So this probably wasn’t a dream. So he should stop holding his breath out of fear he’d awake suddenly, and lean in to kiss Sansa. 

But then his stomach growled. Loudly.

Sansa jerked back, and raised an eyebrow. “So that's what it sounds like when a Lannister roars,” she jested, and Tyrion was mortified to feel himself blush.

 _One almost-kiss and you're acting like an addlebrained twit!_ he scolded himself.

He tried to re-establish some dignity. “Prithee, may I escort thee to break thine fast, my lady,” he said in a grand tone, dropping her hands so he could make a sweeping bow as if a courtier from an earlier time.

To his delight, she laughed, a light, joyous sound and stood before sweeping into a full, graceful curtsey. 

“Indeed thou may, my lord,” she said, and he took her arm and began to escort her. “But one question, my lord: does thou know where one should go to break thine fast?”

He stopped. He hadn't thought of that. “Erm.”

Sansa smiled again and tossed her hair, making the delicate bells in it ring above the sound of the wind whipping around them. “Never fear, my husband. I can show you the way.”

“So you consider our marriage to still hold?” he asked, terrified of the answer but hopeful. She was holding onto his arm, after all. “It's been many years, after all, and we haven't consummated it. No one would fault you if you decided to discard it.” 

_To discard me,_ was what he meant, but was too scared to say.

Sansa looked thoughtful. “Several people have asked me why I treat our marriage as valid. And my answer hasn't changed: we swore a vow in front of the Seven. You haven't died, and a septon hasn't released us from our vows. Besides, I quite like being married to you.”

“You do?”

Sansa grinned, showing her teeth. “Being a Lannister bride is...profitable. And it's better now that I have Jon, but when I had no family, having your family's name behind me was reassuring. As a Stark I was vulnerable to everyone. As a Lannister, I was only vulnerable to other Lannisters. That in itself was bad, but at least I was protected from everyone else.”

He gestured to her hair. “It looks like you can protect yourself just fine these days, my lady.”

Again she smiled a wolfish smile. “Virzeth Veri has sharp teeth,” she said. “It is known. Jon didn’t seem to understand what they meant though.”

“The Dothraki aren’t something the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch typically has to concern himself with, to be fair,” said Tyrion. “I think you’ll find his knowledge of the Free Folk fair surpasses yours these days.”

“Yes, he mentioned something about that. About letting the wildlings south of The Wall, and then he had to leave the Night’s Watch as a result.”

 _What the fuck?_ thought Tyrion. _She’s his sister, and he gave her the short version? Does he not trust her with the truth?_

“What did you and Jon talk about last night, my lady?”

“Nothing much. We reminisced about the pies Old Nan used to make, back at Winterfell, and I apologised for treating him so badly when I was a child. I was a little shit to him back then — I called him bastard to his face more than once. We were never close, and I was so focused on becoming a proper lady…But it’s different now,” she said firmly. “We’re adults, and we’re the only ones left until Arya comes back from wherever she’s been hiding all these years. He’s my brother, my only brother. He might not understand all that I’ve gone through since we left Winterfell, but I will do whatever I can now to make us as close as we can be. My father always said that a lone wolf dies, while the pack survives. Jon’s my pack. All I have left of my pack. And I’m just as much Tully as I am Stark — my family is important to me.”

A distant part of Tyrion wondered how that would work if the Queen she served took a dislike to the King of the North, but there was a more pressing concern with what she said. 

“Sansa...you and Jon aren’t the only Starks alive.”

“Of course not. Arya is still out there, somewhere. If she was gone, I’d know.”

“No, not Arya. Bran and Rickon. They’re still alive. They're at Winterfell.”

Sansa drew to a stop. “But...Theon Greyjoy killed them. Didn’t he?”

Tyrion shook his head. “No. The bodies were other children, disguised. Bran and Rickon are still alive, both hale and hearty. They’ve had adventures of their own in the past few years, fantastic, amazing adventures, but they are most definitely still alive. Still breathing, and I imagine, will be very pleased to see you once again.”

Sansa’s lips went white, and it seemed that her hair crackled with fury.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I must beg your permission for a delay in breaking our fast. I have a brother to kill.”

She stormed off towards the castle, and now the bells in her hair sounded less like pretty ornaments and more like harbingers of doom.

 _Oh, Jon is fucked,_ thought Tyrion as he scrambled to keep up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on my last fic, especially over the last few weeks! You gave me the impetus to get this finished, and if it wasn't for y'all I probably wouldn't be posting this - I'm that pissed off at the final episode.


	2. Bread and Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Daenerys could have sailed for Westeros long ago,” said Sansa. “After we took Meereen we had the ships, the Unsullied, and the Dothraki. We had the city’s coin and supplies. We could have been here over a year ago. But instead, she stayed. She stayed and she saved many people from horrible fates. Some of whom are on this island with us, right now.”
> 
> “What horrible fate did she save you from?” Jon asked.
> 
> “I saved myself,” snapped Sansa. “But Daenerys gave me a home. She gave me a dream to believe in again. And she gave me freedom. The freedom to be myself, to grow from being a scared little girl into the woman you see before you today. The Queen protects people from monsters, just as you do. It’s why she came here. And she’s not about to head north to fight an enemy she’s never seen on the word of a man she doesn’t know after a single meeting, no matter who he’s related to. It’s not a reasonable thing to ask, Jon. She’s a queen, just like you’re a king. She’s trying to do the best by her people, just as you are. Try harder, Jon. And by the Seven — ask for something reasonable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S07E02 ‘Stormborn’, S07E03 ‘The Queen’s Justice’. 
> 
> It was while writing this chapter I realised I definitely used Chrisjen Avasarala from The Expanse as inspiration for Olenna.
> 
> Thank you everyone for your response to this story! It's been awesome to see so many comments and hits turn up this week. I hope you enjoy where I'm taking the characters.
> 
> This chapter hasn't been beta-ed, so if you spot any issues, please let me know.

Tyrion reached the dining room just in time to see Sansa take ferocious strides towards Jon. The King in the North stood from where he’d been poking at a plate of food, clearly concerned by what he saw in his sister’s face.

“Sansa? Wha-” was as much as he managed to say before Sansa’s hand whipped out lightening fast to grab the long loaf of bread from the table beside him.

“Bran!” she yelled, smacking him across the head with the bread and showering him with crumbs. “Rickon! Alive! When were you going to tell me?!?” she continued to yell at him as she battered him with the bread loaf.

“Sansa! Stop!” he cried, attempting to defend himself from her blows.

“No! I thought they were dead! By the Old Gods and the New, why did we talk about pies last night _WHEN YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME OUR BROTHERS WERE STILL ALIVE?_ ” The loaf was mostly destroyed by this stage, and Tyrion slowly slid another one across the table to Sansa. When the first one finally broke into pieces, she reached out her hand, grabbed the replacement, and continued to yell at Jon who half-heartedly tried to defend himself from an unexpected bread attack.

Tyrion sat down at the table beside Davos and helped himself to the food. Fresh eggs, fried tomatoes, bacon...and it looked like there were a few dishes from Essos. He took a small sample of each of them, curious to taste the flavours of another land.

One of the Unsullied came and sat beside him. “You aren’t going to stop her? She’s attacking your king.”

Davos answered from Tyrion’s other side, as Tyrion was too busy discovering a bitter, dark beverage that warmed him from his feet up. It was like tea, but somehow _better_. 

“No, lad, this isn’t someone attacking our king. This is siblings. She just needs to get it out of her system and they’ll be right as rain. It’s not like she’s pulled steel on him — the bread will hurt his dignity, but nothing else. Besides, if I understand her howls correctly, he’d kept from her the news that two of her younger siblings are still alive, when everyone thought them dead. A little public humiliation on his end is little enough to pay for that. You have no siblings on your own?”

The Unsullied man shook his head. “This one has no memories of his life before the Masters.”

The second loaf of bread met it's crumbly doom, and before any of them could offer a third, Sansa's hand fell to the knife at her belt. At that point, Davos did stand, dropping his hand to his sword.

Which made the Unsullied reach for his own weapon, as did the Dothraki scattered around the room.

The sound of multiple blades being drawn seemed to break Sansa out of her rage at Jon as she stopped and looked around, before slowly removing her hand from her blade.

“Forgive me, See Davos. I did not mean to threaten your King.”

Davos bowed, removing his own hand from the hilt of his sword and retaking his seat. “Quite alright, my lady. My sister came after me a few times in our youth in a similar fashion, and I almost certainly deserved it. I just thought it best to remind you that the stakes are higher now.”

“And just what are these stakes?” asked a new voice from behind them. They turned to see who it was, and scrambled to their feet upon seeing the Dragon Queen, surrounded by guards and standing in the doorway. “It seems odd that a Stark King should travel so far if it weren’t for a most grave matter. Surely my letter wasn’t that compelling.”

“It was not, your Grace,” said Jon as he attempted to brush the crumbs from his hair. “But there are important matters for us to attend to.”

The Queen nodded. “I imagine there are. Come, my lord. I feel the time has come for us to discuss what has brought you here — and what will happen now.”

* * *

Sansa was mortified. _I can't believe I got so angry that I attacked Jon like that! They must consider me a complete savage. Oh Gods, it was so embarrassing, and for Daenerys to see us like that! Oh, I hope she doesn't think badly of us. I hope_ Tyrion _doesn't think badly of me. There I was, hoping to show him I was a lady now, a woman, and what do I do? I act like a savage — like Arya at her worst!_

Sansa was so caught up in her self-recriminations that she failed to hear the comment that the old man who'd come with Jon made as they settled around the painted table. She snapped her attention back to the room just as Daenerys began her response.

“Forgive me, Ser Davos; I never did receive a formal education. But I could have sworn I read that the last King in the North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen. In exchange for his life, and the lives of his Northmen, Torrhen Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Or do I have my facts wrong?”

“No, Your Grace,” said Jon, and Sansa's stomach plunged. _Shit,_ she thought. _Shit, shit, shit! Why is she antagonising Jon? I know him being King is a threat to her claim over the Seven Kingdoms, but I thought given time we could come to some agreement. He’s my brother, after all, and she must know I’m loyal to her after all this time. I could have talked him around! Why is she pushing this so soon?_

“An oath is an oath, my lord. And ‘in perpetuity’ means — what does 'in perpetuity’ mean, my Hand?”

“Forever,” she replied miserably. _I don't want them to fight! They aren't the enemy — Cersei is the enemy! We should be uniting against her, not tearing ourselves apart over oaths and vows that are hundreds of years old! As if they even matter any more, after all that has happened! You stupid little girl — did you think that everything would be magically okay, now you know you aren't the only Stark left?_

“Forever,” repeated Daenerys, a pleased smirk on her face. “Therefore I assume, my lord, that you are here to bend the knee.”

Jon stared straight at Daenerys. “I am not.”

“Oh,” said Daenerys. “Well that is unfortunate. So you've travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen? You could have just sent a raven.”

“Break faith?” asked Jon. “Your father burned our grandfather alive. He burned our uncle alive. He would have burned the Seven Kingdoms, were he not stopped. It seems like House Targaryen broke faith with us long before we broke faith with you.”

Sansa noticed that Tyrion seemed pleased by Jon's argument, and wondered if it had originally come from her husband. It sounded more like him than the Jon she remembered — but then, she’d hardly paid attention to Jon before they’d left Winterfell.

“Moreover, Your Grace,” said Tyrion, “Your family left. They were defeated, and ran from the Seven Kingdoms. With good reason, of course, but still — they abandoned the Iron Throne. Your family forfeited their right to rule Westeros when they left Westeros.”

“I am the rightful Queen of Westeros!” blazed Daenerys.

Tyrion shrugged and Sansa wondered what had happened to the smart man she knew, as he was openly baiting the Queen. “Right now, all you are Queen of is Dragonstone. Your family was gone, the oaths of fealty to your family void when your father turned on his subjects and the rest of you fled. You may claim the title, my lady, but you have no claim to the Iron Throne. Not until you sit upon it.”

“It was your brother that murdered my father and sat upon his Throne, wasn't it?” asked Daenerys. “Little wonder you are so willing to side against us.”

“Your Grace,” said Sansa, but Daenerys held up a hand and Sansa clamped her mouth shut.

“My father was an evil man,” sighed the Queen. “On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father, and I shall not judge you by the sins of yours.”

Jon looked around the table and nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace. I don't doubt you are sincere in that apology, or my sister would not be sitting beside you now — nor would the Tyrells nor the Martells be sitting there too.”

Sansa let out a breath, and wondered when her bastard brother had learned the basics of statecraft. She hoped he’d learned it well enough, whoever had taught it to him.

“House Stark and House Targaryen were allies for centuries,” said Daenerys. “And those centuries were the best the Seven Kingdoms have ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne, and a Stark as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honour the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee. Together we can save the Seven Kingdoms from those who would wish to destroy them.”

Tyrion sighed. “Your Grace, you can't have it both ways. You can't repudiate your father's crimes, yet still expect the King to honour his ancestor’s vows. Either we are responsible for and beholden to the actions of our forefathers, or we are not. If you wish for the King to honour Torrhen Stark's oath, you must be prepared for King Snow to challenge you over the murder of his grandfather.”

“None of this matters in the face of those who wish to destroy us!” protested Jon. “Your Grace, I will not bend the knee. I did not come here to do so, and it is not negotiable. I am here because I need your help, and you need mine.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrow. “Did you not see three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?”

“I did.”

“And do you not see my Dothraki? My Unsullied? The Martells and Tyrells sitting at this very table?”

“They're hard to miss,” nodded Jon.

“But still. _I_ need _your_ help?”

“Not to defeat Cersei,” said Ser Davos. “You have more than enough men and dragons to march on King's Landing today and win. You don't need us for that. Hell, Stannis Baratheon and I almost took King's Landing and we didn't even have dragons.”

“Almost,” muttered Tyrion, and Sansa fought to hide a smile.

“But you haven't stormed King's Landing,” said Jon, “And it makes me wonder why. The only thing I can think of is that you don't want thousands of innocent people to die. Both Davos and Tyrion assure me that with Cersei on the Throne, that is what will happen if you assault the city. The fact that you aren't willing to kill innocents to advance your own agenda makes me believe that at the very least, you are better than Cersei. Which is why I am speaking to you, not her. I am King of the North, and we are an independent kingdom once again. That is not up for debate. Yet you need us to help defeat the real enemy to the North.”

“As far as I can see, you are the enemy to the North.”

“I am not your enemy,” said Jon with a shake of his head, then he paused. He took a deep breath. “The dead are the enemy.”

“The dead,” said Daenerys flatly. “I may be young, my lord, but I am not stupid. The dead are dead.”

Jon's stare never wavered. “An army of the dead is on the march, and they are coming south.”

Daenerys turned to Sansa. “You didn't tell me your brother was mad.”

Sansa was torn. “He's not, your Grace. And he's never been prone to lying.” But an army of the dead? It seemed so... fantastical.

_Like dragons?_ asked a little voice at the back of her head.

“The army of the dead is real,” insisted Jon. “The White Walkers are real. The Night King is real. I've seen them. I've fought them. They are coming, and we must work together to stop them.” 

Beside Jon, Tyrion nodded. “We fought them at Hardhome, your Grace, beyond The Wall. Thousands of them, and after the massacre there, thousands more. They are coming, and they must be stopped.”

“If they get past The Wall, your Grace, and we're still squabbling amongst ourselves over who should bend the knee to whom, then we're finished. It won't matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne, because there won't be a Seven Kingdoms left to rule.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then bend the knee,” said Daenyers. “Swear your allegiance to me, help me defeat Cersei, and afterwards the full weight of the armies of Westeros shall protect the North from whatever it was you saw beyond The Wall.”

“There’s no time for that!” snapped Jon. “There’s no time for any of this! While we stand here debating…”

“It takes no time to bend the knee,” said Sansa softly. “Jon, I understand. You know I do. I am of the North, just as much as you. I love the North, just as much as you do. We’re both Starks. Daenerys is good, I promise you. She’s not her father, she’s not Robert, she’s not Joffrey. She cares about Westeros and its people. All of its people. Including the Northmen. Bend the knee, pledge your sword-”

“And why would I do that?” snapped Jon, cutting her off. “You’ve been in the South for too long. Neither of us are Starks. I never was, and you’re a Lannister now. You have been for years.”

“You have a Lannister at your side,” she said softly, hurt at Jon’s harshness.

“He’s a Hill, at least legally,” sighed Jon. “I mean no disrespect, your Grace,” he said to Daenerys, “But I don’t know you. As far as I can tell, your claim to the Throne rests entirely on your father’s name — a father my father fought to overthrow. And won. The Lords of the North placed their trust in me to lead them. And I will continue to do so, as well as I can. Which doesn’t mean bowing the knee to the first person to come along claiming to be the rightful queen of Westeros, no matter how many dragons she has!”

Daenerys looked at Jon and sighed. “Leave us, Lord Snow. I wish to talk to my advisors. You and your men have the freedom of Dragonstone for the time being, and I will summon you when I wish this conversation to continue.”

Jon pushed his chair back with a snarl, and stalked from the room. Ser Davos bowed and followed him, while Tyrion fidgeted and stayed where he was. 

“Your Grace...he is a good man. Inflexible, but you know Northerners. Stubborn as the ice in their veins,” he said, nodding at Sansa as he did so. “He really is trying to do right by the people of the North. Did you know he’s brokered a peace between the Free Folk north of The Wall and the Northmen? It’s never been done before, but Jon Snow saw what was needful and saw it was done.”

Daenerys nodded. “I thank you, Tyrion Hill. Leave us now.”

His eyes locked with Sansa’s as he stood from his hair, bowed, and left the room.

* * *

“Well, that could have gone better,” snapped Olenna once the guards indicated that none of Jon’s party were still in hearing range. “I thought you were going to pull it out and measure it against his.”

Daenerys sighed. “I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me that I don’t remember all their names. I have been sold like a broodmare, I’ve been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. What kept me standing through all those years of exile was faith. Not faith in the Gods, or in myths or legends, but faith in myself. Faith in Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn’t seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn’t crossed the sea before — any sea — but they did it for me. I am the rightful queen of Westeros, and this upstart bastard thinks he can come from the North and make demands of me?”

Olenna turned to Varys and sighed. “I thought you said she had sense. And you, girl!” she snapped her fingers at Sansa. “I thought you had better sense than to follow the first person to give you a kind word. Bah, no, don’t interrupt, let your elders speak and learn for once. The Seven Kingdoms are a mess, your Grace. Robert was a useless sack of shit, and he left the kingdoms largely to their own devices. It worked until it didn’t. The Iron Islands were never fully part of the Seven Kingdoms, and rebelled what, ten, fifteen years ago? They were put down by the North but they weren’t happy about it. Even in Highgarden I got the feeling that Dorne was only willing to play at being part of the Seven Kingdoms because it was too much effort to properly rebel, particularly after Elia married your brother. It was only two centuries ago that they finally became one of the kingdoms, and that was through marriage, not military might. Once the Lannisters killed Elia it was all over — they retreated south of the Red Mountains and have largely kept to themselves since then. So that’s two of the kingdoms that were only nominally under the Iron Throne’s control anyway, even before Robert was gored by a boar.”

Daenerys looked as if she was going to speak, but Olenna barrelled on. “Ah ah ah, let me finish. Who’s left? Well, the North and the Westerlands. They were happy enough to be part of Robert’s kingdom — the North because of the friendship between Ned and Robert, and the Westerlands because of the marriage between Robert and Cersei. The Stormlands, well, they’ve been Baratheon land for centuries, and the Vale and the Riverlands followed the North in joining with Robert, due to the marriage of the Tully girls and Jon Arryn’s relationship with Ned and Robert. And we in the Reach certainly weren’t going to stand against the rest of Westeros, not while it looked like things were working out. So that was the situation many years ago — the Seven Kingdoms if not nominally at peace, certainly not at war.”

“But that’s not the situation now,” she said, leaning forward and starting to move the figures around the painted table. “It’s all very different now. The Iron Islands are in rebellion once again. Old Balon is dead, and we don’t know who will take the salt crown now. Both his daughter and his brother have apparently staked a claim, so that’s one of your seven kingdoms at war with itself. The Riverlands are in utter disarray since the Red Wedding — House Frey may hold Riverrun, but if you think that means they control the entire Riverlands then you’re a bigger fool than your behaviour with King Snow just indicated. House Frey shat all over the laws of hospitality and murdered members of the Tully family at a wedding. The Riverlands will never follow them, but they don’t have anyone else to rally around at the moment. The War took too many of the heirs of the Great Houses, and the other larger houses, and it’s coming home to roost. The North is striking out on it’s own, apparently with The Vale — I questioned your husband last night, missy,” she said to Sansa, “who said that Littlefinger married Jon Arryn’s widow, murdered her, and then was hung for crimes against the kingdom. So The Vale has no leader of their own, but are instead choosing to follow your brother — presumably because they can’t think of anything better to do, especially since your cousin is too young to rule. So that’s four of the kingdoms that you certainly don’t control. You have no claim over the Westerlands, and they’ll be for Cersei anyway.”

“I have Dorne and the Reach,” said Daenerys softly.

“No, your Grace, you have us as your supporters, but we have not sworn our kingdoms to you,” said Oberyn. “We are your allies, not your subjects. My brother rules Dorne. Lady Olenna rules the Reach.”

“I think you’ll find my son rules the Reach.”

Oberyn winked. “And everyone knows who rules him, my lady.”

“I thought you were my allies,” muttered Daenerys.

“We are, girl, which is why we are telling you: we are your _allies_. Not your subjects,” said Lady Tyrell. “You might consider yourself the rightful queen, but it’s been a long time since the Seven Kingdoms were at peace with each other. We didn’t have peace under your father, or his father, or his. Peace never lasts, my dear. It always turns to war in the end. All we can do is try and keep it at bay for as long as possible.”

“So what should I do?”

“There are old stories in the North, your Grace,” said Sansa. “About the Long Night, when the dead walked among men and took away their lives. I always thought they were fairy tales, but then — I thought that about dragons too. My brother isn’t a liar, nor is my husband. If they say something terrible is coming, then we should join them and help fight it.”

“We have had strange reports coming from the North for years,” said Varys, speaking for the first time since the whole awkward meeting started. “Communications largely broke down once the Boltons took Winterfell, but before then our information was reliable. There were large numbers of wildlings fleeing south of The Wall, and the few traders that would sail north reported hearing strange stories — and seeing strange things.”

“Our spies said the same,” said Olenna.

“As did the traders from Essos who trade north of The Wall,” said Ser Barristan.

“Few of our sailors go that far north,” said Oberyn, “as it’s too damn cold up there for anyone of sense, but we have heard tales from those who do. Tales that are remarkably consistent with what King Snow is reporting.”

“Your father,” Varys nodded at Ser Jorah, “wrote to Robert asking for more supplies for the Night’s Watch, saying that something was coming. He framed it in terms of the wildlings massing beyond The Wall, but perhaps it was something more. Or perhaps the wildlings were massing to get away from whatever it was north of The Wall that _they_ were afraid of.”

“Between an army of the dead and the Night’s Watch, I’d take on the Night’s Watch,” said Oberyn. “They’ve been underfunded and poorly manned for years, and it’s a miracle they were able to defend The Wall as well as they have. Lord Commander Mormont did a better job than I think many people give him credit for. He was far too good a general to have taken the black.”

Ser Jorah nodded at the compliment to his father, even if he looked awkward at the reminder of _why_ such a good general had joined the Night’s Watch.

“Taken on it’s own, each of these stories can be dismissed as snarks and grumpkins,” said Sansa. “People being afraid of the dark, and what goes bump in the night. But when you add the stories together, when person after person tells you the same thing — your Grace, I feel my brother is right. There is a great enemy marching on Westeros, and we must join with him to fight it. Or you will be queen of nothing but ashes.”

* * *

“I came here to brood over my dismal performance in there,” said Tyrion as he approached Jon standing on the cliff. “But you’re making it very difficult. You brood a lot better than I do.”

They were standing very near to where Tyrion and Sansa had finally reunited, earlier that morning. Tyrion cursed his stomach’s terrible timing — he’d been so close to kissing Sansa again after all these years.

“Had more practice, I suppose,” said Jon absently as he stared over the horizon. “And it’s easy to brood when we’re prisoners on this island. The dead are coming for us all, and I’m stuck here. The North needs me. I should never have come.”

Tyrion stepped closer to Jon. “It was one meeting, Jon. It was the start of negotiations. We’ll do better next time — we have her measure now.”

“We may have her measure, but she has our boat,” said Jon glumly.

“Jon...can we speak?” Jon and Tyrion turned to see Sansa picking her way across the cliff towards them.

“Shall I leave?”

“No, Tyrion, please stay. I would value your council on this. Jon...is it true?”

“It’s hard for me to fathom, it really is,” said Jon. “If someone told me about the White Walkers and the Night King and an army of the dead…” he stopped and closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t believe me either.”

“I do, actually,” said Sansa. “The Queen might take a little more convincing.”

Jon sighed. “How do I convince people who don’t know me that an enemy they don’t believe in is coming to kill us all?”

“I don’t know, Jon. But I believe you.”

“Then will you help me get free of this island? I need to help my people prepare for what’s coming. I can’t help them from here. I’d like to leave.”

“You can’t give up so soon, Jon,” said Sansa. “It seems unlikely that the North would rally behind a bastard if he gave up at the first sign of a struggle.”

“At the first sign!” he said, clearly offended. “There’s been more than enough signs. Everyone told me not to copy our family’s mistakes. Don’t go south. Don’t answer a summons from the Targaryens. Yet here I am. A Northern fool.”

“Children are not their fathers,” said Tyrion softly. “Fortunately for all of us.” 

“There’s been one conversation,” said Sansa. “Daenerys could have sailed for Westeros long ago. After we took Meereen we had the ships, the Unsullied, and the Dothraki. We had the city’s coin and supplies. We could have been here over a year ago. But instead, she stayed. She stayed and she saved many people from horrible fates. Some of whom are on this island with us, right now.”

“What horrible fate did she save you from?” Jon asked.

“I saved myself,” snapped Sansa. “But Daenerys gave me a home. She gave me a dream to believe in again. And she gave me freedom. The freedom to be myself, to grow from being a scared little girl into the woman you see before you today. The Queen protects people from monsters, just as you do. It’s why she came here. And she’s not about to head north to fight an enemy she’s never seen on the word of a man she doesn’t know after a single meeting, no matter who he’s related to. It’s not a reasonable thing to ask, Jon. She’s a queen, just like you’re a king. She’s trying to do the best by her people, just as you are. Try _harder_ , Jon. And by the Seven — ask for something reasonable.”

He headed back up the hill in a swirl of his cloak, and when he was safely gone, Sansa sagged. Tyrion took her hand, and she smiled at him.

“Come, my lady,” he said. “I have it on good authority that there are lemoncakes and more of that delicious hot beverage inside. Why don’t we share some, and see if we can’t think of some way to get our rulers pulling in the same direction, rather than pulling us apart.”

“Coffee goes terribly with lemoncakes, my lord,” said Sansa as they started towards the castle at a much slower speed than Jon. “But other than that, your idea has merit. Let us see what we, together, could try and present as a compromise. Without anyone having to bend a knee.”

_Oh, I don’t know,_ thought Tyrion as the wind made the bells in Sansa’s hair ring. _I’d be very happy to bend the knee to you._ He cursed the fact that it looked like the discussions between the Dragon Queen and the King of the North would get in the way of he and Sansa continuing their discussion about their relationship — and where it could go from here.

* * *

The next day found the two camps back in the painted room, once again sitting at opposite sides of the table. The magical black liquid — coffee, Sansa had called it — was remarkable stuff. It kept his mind sharp long into the night, and he’d pounced on Jon over breakfast with a list of suggestions of reasonable requests he could make of Daenerys Targaryen. He’d come up with several of them with Sansa the previous afternoon — the way her mind worked was breathtaking — but the coffee had helped him come up with many more long after the candles had been lit and his wife had retired to her chamber.

Without him.

But today was a new day, and with coffee in his system — blessed, magical, wonderful coffee — Tyrion felt certain that everything would be okay.

Except it wasn’t okay. Jon and Daenerys were arguing again. Something about...the price of mutton?

He rolled his eyes, and shared a long-suffering look with Sansa across the table. She smiled at him, and opened her mouth to say something, when the door to the room crashed open.

“Oh, hello,” said the dark-haired girl in salt-encrusted leathers, brushing off the Unsullied who dried to drag her from the room as if they didn’t matter at all. “What do we have here? No, no, leave me alone, you already took my weapons.”

She dragged out a seat at the end of the table and plopped down, swinging her feet up onto the painted table as Daenerys cautiously waved the guards back. They took up watchful positions around the walls of the room, their spears aimed at the woman.

“You must be Daenerys Targaryen. Thought you lot had all died out, but the hair and the eyes and, well, the dragons outside say otherwise. Nice beasties, those. Nearly didn’t let us land but in the end they seemed to back off, so here I am. And you! You must be Jon Snow. Didn’t expect to find you here, but saw your boat as we were heading past and thought we’d pop in to say hi. I have a parcel for you, by the way.”

She let out a piercing whistle, and Samwell Tarly stumbled through the door, supported by — Theon Greyjoy?

Sansa let out a hiss, and it was only Daenerys’ hand on her arm that seemed to stop Sansa from drawing the sword at her belt.

“Young Maester Sam here doesn’t do well with boats, I’m afraid, but he said he had something urgent to tell you, Snow, so here he is. And here I am. If I’m not mistaken, we’ve got the Tyrells, the Martells, the Lannister Imp, Sansa Stark, and the spymaster of the Iron Throne all sitting around the same table with the King in the North and a Targaryen. And you,” she said as she winked at Davos. “Whoever you are, cutie.”

She grinned, and Tyrion was surprised her teeth didn’t have blood in them. “I’m Yara Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands. Whatever you’re up to, I want in.”


	3. Ironborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am the Lady of Winterfell, the oldest trueborn child of Ned Stark, and you killed my people. You caused me pain and grief and I demand a blood price from you. Choose your weapon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S01E01 ‘Winter is Coming’, S06E03 ‘Oathbreaker’, S06E09 ‘The Battle of the Bastards’ and S08E04 ‘The Last of the Starks’.

Yara grinned at them all. “If it helps, I’ve bought a hundred ships from the Iron Fleet. With men to sail them.”

Daenerys looked amused. “And I suppose that in return, you want me to support your claim to the throne of the Iron Islands? Has the Iron Islands ever had a queen before?”

“No more than Westeros has, your Grace,” said Yara as she reached for one of the carved pieces showing the forces of Dorne, and started to carelessly toss it from hand to hand.

“Our Uncle Euron returned home after a long absence,” said Theon, and Tyrion watched as Sansa once again bristled. It appeared that even though Sansa _knew_ her brothers were safe, it would take a long time for her to forgive Theon for taking Winterfell. 

“He murdered our father, and took the Salt Throne from Yara,” he continued. “He’d’ve murdered us if we’d stayed.”

Tyrion remembered the shattered man they’d found in the kennels of Winterfell, and felt that sending him back to the Iron Islands had been the right thing to do. They’d debated killing him — he had betrayed the Starks and seized Winterfell, after all — but looking at the shivering, broken thing that had curled in upon himself they couldn’t bring themselves to do it. So they’d sent Theon back to his family and put him out of their minds. Tyrion looked at the way the man was standing now and realised that while he may have mended somewhat, he was still deeply broken inside. It wouldn’t take much to break him again, perhaps this time permanently.

Tyrion filed the thought away for another day. 

“I’ve heard that your father was a terrible king,” said Daenerys pleasantly.

“You and I have that in common,” answered Yara with an easy smile. “But you and I are not our fathers. We can be better than them. And we will be.”

“Where are the other ships?” asked Ser Davos. “Forgive me for intruding, but there are more than a hundred ships in the Iron Fleet.”

Several heads around the table nodded. The Westerlands and the Reach were common targets of Ironborn raiding, and both Oberyn and Varys were both well versed in the strength of the various naval fleets around Westeros.

“There are,” said Yara with a nod. “And Euron is building more. He’s going to offer them to you.”

“Then why shouldn’t I wait for his offer?” asked Daenerys. “He has more ships than you.” 

“The Iron Fleet isn’t all he’s bringing,” said Theon. “He also wants to give you —”

“His big cock,” said Yara, sounding utterly bored. “Apparently. I’ve never seen it, obviously, but it sounded a lot like bragging to me.”

Tyrion noticed with delight that every single woman in the room rolled their eyes at that statement and shared a look of understanding with each other.

“Euron’s offer is also an offer of marriage,” said Yara. “You won’t get one without the other.” 

“And I imagine your offer is free of any marriage demands?”

Yara grinned, and blatantly looked Daenerys up and down. “I never demand, but I’m up for anything really.” She winked at Daenerys, who for a split second looked interested before she tucked her expression behind a polite court mask. 

“He murdered our father and would have murdered us,” said Theon, breaking the moment. “He’ll murder you as soon as you have what he wants.”

“The Iron Throne,” said Daenerys. “And the Seven Kingdoms.”

“All of them,” agreed Yara. 

“And you don’t want the Seven Kingdoms?” asked Daenerys.

“Your ancestors defeated ours, and took the Iron Islands,” said Yara. “We’d like you to give them back.”

“That’s all?”

“Please?” said Yara, sounding as if it wasn’t a word she said often. “We’d also like you to help us murder our uncle, if that’s something you’d be interested in. And the odd lord or two who doesn’t think a woman is fit to rule.”

“Reasonable,” said Daenerys, a smirk peaking out once again from behind her polite court expression. 

It didn’t escape Tyrion’s notice that Daenerys hadn’t actually said she would give the Iron Islands back to House Greyjoy. _She’s smart, this Dragon Queen,_ he thought, not for the first time.

“Our fathers were evil men,” continued Daenerys. “They left the world worse than they found it. We’re going to leave the world better than they found it. You will support my claim as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” she said as she rose from her chair and walked around the table to where Yara was sitting. “And respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms. No more reaving, roving, raiding, or raping.”

Yara shook her head. “That’s our way of life.”

Daenerys reached Yara and pushed her feet off the table, making the other woman sit up or lose her balance. “No more. I have come here not only to take the Iron Throne, but also to create a better life for all in the Seven Kingdoms. I aim to build a new world here. A better world. And this better world has no room for that. No more.”

They stared at each other, Daenerys implacable and Yara searching. Eventually, Yara nodded. “No more.” 

Yara placed the figurine she’d been playing with back on the table and stood up. She extended her hand to Daenerys, who considered it, before reaching forward and clasping Yara’s forearm to seal the bargain.

 _The Reach, Dorne, and now the Iron Islands. Daenerys has three kingdoms under her control, and she hasn’t even set foot on the mainland yet,_ marvelled Tyrion. He flicked his gaze at Jon, who couldn’t quite hide his unease at what had just happened. _He may have to bend the knee after all._

* * *

After that, the Northerners plus Theon Greyjoy were summarily dismissed from the room, while Daenerys and her court spoke with Yara in private.

Theon headed off with one of the servants to see to accommodations for himself and his sister and, after a frustrated look at the closed door barring them from the room, Jon turned to Sam and folded his friend into a hug.

They clung to each other for a long time, then parted, slapping each other on the back. Jon started to lead the way to the suite of rooms they’d been given, and Davos and Tyrion fell in behind them.

“Did you make it to the Citadel?” asked Jon.

“We did. Stopped off at Horn Hill first.”

“Did you leave Gilly and young Sam there as planned?”

Sam shook his head. “No. My father realised Gilly was a wildling, and, well, I didn’t want to leave her there after that. She came to the Citadel with me.”

“I thought the Citadel didn’t allow women inside.”

“I said they could bloody well try and stop me, didn’t I?” Sam grinned at Jon, who smiled back.

Tyrion was glad to see a smile back on Jon’s face. Although he’d been delighted to be reunited with his sister, Tyrion could tell that the situation with the Dragon Queen frustrated Jon, as did being trapped here on the island. It had only been a couple of days, though it felt much, much longer.

“Why are you here?” asked Jon. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, but…”

“You need a Maester, and I’ve barely a link in my chain.”

“You have a link?”

“Three, actually,” said Sam proudly. “Black Iron, Bronze, and Silver.”

“Silver?” asked Tyrion. “You weren’t there for that long...”

“I wasn’t, but after I cured a man of grayscale they had to give me my silver link,” said Sam, a proud and confident tone in his voice.

The others drew a stop from shock, however, and it took Sam a few steps to realise he was the only one walking.

“You cured a man of grayscale?”

“Well, yes.”

“Really cured them? Who? How?”

“Really cured them, and an artisan of Myr. He was a lense maker without equal, so his master did not wish for him to die. And I found the technique in an old book. It was dangerous and painful and honestly disgusting but it worked. Archmaester Ebrose and the others all agreed that I had succeeded, and that he was cured. So they had to award me my link,” said Sam with a blush and a shrug.

It seemed that Sam’s journey had done much to increase both his knowledge and his confidence. Tyrion looked at how the young man was standing, and though Sam was as round as ever, his shoulders were squarer and he held himself better. Maester or not, young Samwell Tarly no longer shrunk from the world as if he feared it would strike him, but rather faced it, secure in the understanding that he had knowledge, and skills, and a purpose. Tyrion was pleased for his friend. Sam was a good man, and it seemed like Sam himself had finally realised this.

“Where are your links?” asked Tyrion, curious as ever. _In another life, I could have been a maester,_ he thought. _I wonder what links I would have forged?_

“Three links is hardly a chain,” said Sam. “But it does make a nice bracelet.”

As one, they all looked at Sam’s wrists, where there was a marked lack of a bracelet. Sam rolled his eyes. 

“I gave it to Gilly,” he said. “Her and I, well, we’re one and the same now.”

Tyrion felt his eyebrows raise at that statement, and saw the same level of surprise on the other’s faces. “Tarly. Did you do what I think you did?”

Sam smiled, a full, happy grin. “Almost. We talked about it, but I made my vows to the Watch, and I mean to keep them. No wife, no lands, no children. But I love her, and if I can’t provide her with lands and my name to keep her safe, at least I can give her the links of my Chain. If nothing else, she can always sell the metal in Essos.”

“Essos? Why would Gilly be going to Essos?”

Sam’s smile dropped. “There’s a reason I left the Citadel, Jon. There’s information you need to know. I think I know how you can defeat the White Walkers.”

* * *

The knock came at her door as she was readying for bed. Lyanna had already assumed her spot at the end of her bed, and Sansa was in the midst of taking the bells out of her hair for the night. They were uncomfortable to sleep on, and when she moved in the night the sound would awaken her, so out they came. 

“Come in!” she called as she pulled her hair back into a simple braid. She was surprised to see it was Jon opening her door — of anyone on this island who would seek her in the middle of the night, she’d figured it would be Daenerys, coming to her for advice and counsel as her friend often did at night. 

Or perhaps Tyrion. She may have had one or two fantasies since his appearance on Dragonstone of him sneaking into her chamber at night, kissing her and running his hands beneath her skirts…

But the face that appeared around the door was Jon, not Tyrion, and Sansa wrenched her thoughts away from her fantasies.

“Sansa — do you have a moment?”

He let himself in and shut the door, a flagon of wine in his hand.

“A little late for wine, don’t you think?” she asked, turning to get some cups.

“It’s never too late for wine, not when discussing this,” he said as he poured. “Please, sit.”

“Jon? What is it? You’re scaring me.”

“When I told you why I left the Night’s Watch, I left out something important. I died.”

Sansa blinked at him in shock. “What?”

“I died. Letting the wildlings come south of The Wall wasn’t a popular move, and some of my brothers stabbed me for it. They lured me out of my rooms, locked up Ghost, and stabbed me.”

Sansa took a sip of her wine, her mind blank of anything else to do.

“Then how…?”

“Davos. I don’t know he did it, but between him and Tyrion — Stannis Baratheon had just been defeated, and his Red Priestess was still in the North.”

“Melisandre? She was here on Dragonstone, but left when you arrived.”

Jon smiled, a sad awkward little thing. “She probably spotted Davos. He told her that he’d kill her the next time he saw her, and Davos keeps his word. Anyway, the Red Priestess was at Castle Black. Davos and Tyrion convinced her to bring me back — this was before he threatened to kill her. I was gone, then I was back, and...then I left the Night’s Watch. I’d served until my death, so my watch was ended.”

“Why...why are you telling me this?”

“You’re my sister, Sansa. You deserve to know. I should have told you earlier, but…”

“Jon,” Sansa shook her head. “I just...I can’t...Jon, if I didn’t know you I wouldn’t believe you. Are you...are you even alive? Or are you just a walking corpse, like the ones you want us to fight?”

“I’m alive,” he said. “My hair still grows, I still get hungry, still need to...well. My wounds heal, and my eyes aren’t blue. I don’t know how what the Red Priestess did is different to what the Night King does, but it is. I’m alive, Sansa. Beating heart, breathing lungs, all of it. I’m not a mindless creature, set upon destruction and death.”

“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say you weren’t mindless,” she murmured, and immediately blushed and clapped her hand over her mouth. _When did I get so rude?_

Fortunately, Jon chuckled. “Ah, that’s better. You’re my sister, Sansa. Even with bells in your hair and a sword at your waist, you’re still the girl I remember from my childhood — the one who largely wasn’t impressed with me, and never had anything kind to say. Hearing you insult me is the most normal thing that’s happened to me for a long time.”

He put his empty glass down, and crossed the room to pat Lyanna on her head. “Davos and Tyrion both know, so you can talk with them about it, but no one else, please. It’s not something I want widely known.”

“How many others know?”

“Here? Four of us. In the North? More.”

“Then it’s not a secret anymore,” said Sansa. “It’s information. Information you’re asking me to keep from my Queen.”

“I don’t trust her. Not yet. I hope I will, but just in case...please, Sansa. Keep this information from her.”

“She deserves to know that the man she is considered allying with has come back from the dead!”

“Would she understand it? It’s hardly an easy thing to grasp, and I’ve thrown enough at her with my tales of the Night King and his army of the dead!”

“Jon, Daenerys Targaryen walked into a burning funeral pyre carrying three lumps of stone and emerged from it with three living dragons, the first to be seen in our world in over a hundred and fifty years. She’s seen first-hand what happens when a witch tries to bring someone back but fails — her husband, Khal Drogo. She’s seen that magic before. She fought the warlocks of Qarth and all their magic and _won_. She’s not some naive summer child who knows nothing, Jon. You underestimate her. She’s smart, and clever, and a good ruler. You can trust her.”

Jon gave Lyanna a final pat and stood. “We’ll see. The fact that you trust her speaks a lot, but I’ve been betrayed by those I trust too often. I need to be sure.”

“Jon...” He halted on his way to the door. “Afterwards — what did you see? Is there anything?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. There was nothing at all.”

* * *

“Theon Greyjoy! I demand satisfaction from you!”

It seemed as though every person on the training ground held their breath as Sansa strode across the sand directly towards Theon.

Tyrion, who had been dragged out here by Jon to train with the Ironborn, was suddenly glad that he’d been hauled out of bed. Sansa was _magnificent_ , her long hair pulled into a single braid down her back and comfortable-looking leathers snug around her frame. The bells in her hair rang and flashed in the light as she moved, and to Tyrion she looked like a goddess of vengeance and war from a far off land.

He felt just a little more of his heart fall for her, and wondered once again what she could possibly see in him.

“You betrayed my family! You killed my Maester! You burned my castle, and you murdered my brothers.”

“They weren’t your brothers,” said Theon softly. If Tyrion hadn’t been standing close to Theon he didn’t think he’d’ve heard him.

“I have learned this, but for a long time, it was known that they were. Regardless, I am the Lady of Winterfell, the oldest trueborn child of Ned Stark, and you killed my people. You caused me pain and grief and I demand a blood price from you,” she said, almost shaking with anger. “Choose your weapon.”

Theon looked at Sansa, and nodded, moving towards the rack of training swords. The others in the training yard drew back, Tyrion amongst them.

Jon did not pull back. He was frozen in place, a worried look on his face. Tyrion moved forward to grab his sleeve and pull Jon back. “Jon, come on. They’ll need the space.”

Jon looked at Tyrion, worry clear in his eyes. “But...Theon could hurt her. I can’t let that happen.”

Tyrion laughed, and then stopped. “Oh. You really mean that? Jon, Theon is not going to hurt her. He’ll be lucky if he manages to land a single strike. He’s smart, going for the training weapons. If it was a live weapon she’d gut him like a fish.”

Jon looked still looked confused, and Tyrion tugged harder. “Come _on_ , Jon. The Queen is watching up in the viewing gallery. Let’s join her.”

Jon snapped his head around to see Daenerys, and finally moved. He stalked towards the stairs leading to the viewing gallery, and with one final look at Sansa, Tyrion followed.

“She’ll put a stop to this,” muttered Jon to Tyrion as they walked. “Theon’s been handling a sword since he was tall enough to swing one. I used to spar with him when we were lads — he’s good. Wiley. Sansa doesn’t stand a chance.”

Jon looked like he was about to march straight up to Daenerys and demand she forbid the fight, so Tyrion dug in his heels and pulled Jon to a stop.

“Jon...what do you know of the Dothraki? Of their hair?”

“Their hair?”

“Look at the warriors, particularly those standing nearest to the Queen. Do you see how long their hair is? When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braids so the whole world can see their shame. They are only allowed to braid their hair after they have won a victory, at which time a small bell is also added.”

Jon looked at the warriors gathered around Daenerys, and frowned. “So these warriors…”

Tyrion nodded. “Not a single one of them has their hair shorter than their shoulder blades, and each has at least 10 bells in their hair. The warriors of Daenerys’ khalasar are very good, Jon. Very good.”

“But what does that have to do with Sansa?” asked Jon. “She’s not Dothraki.”

“No, but she’s clearly rode with them for years. Look at what she is wearing — it’s closer to what the Dothraki are wearing than what the Westerosi are wearing. And look at her hair, Jon. It’s a braid. One single, long braid. It goes all the way to her -” Tyrion paused, not wanting to say ‘ass’ to Sansa’s brother, who just glared at him. 

Tyrion coughed. “It’s very long,” he said delicately. “And has what, six bells worked into it? The Dothraki have seen Sansa in battle, and have judged her their equal and deserving of praise. Jon, the Dothraki don’t _do_ that to women, particularly not foreign women.”

“Ah, but Virzeth Veri has earned the honour,” said Missandei. Tyrion and Jon turned to see that she had come up behind them. “She impressed the khalasar she rode with from Braavos to Meereen, and was the Queen’s Champion at Meereen. She slew the Meereenese champion between one breath and the other.”

“Sansa. My sister.”

Missandei nodded. “Your sister, our champion.” She smiled. “The Queen has asked that you come and sit with her during the bout. She would like to continue your discussions, once Virzeth Veri has won satisfaction from Lord Theon.”

They started to walk towards the Queen, and Tyrion had a sudden thought. “Missandei, I’ve noticed the Queen doesn’t have any bells.”

“No, she doesn’t,” answered the interpreter. “But she does have many, many braids.”

* * *

Theon had gone for training swords, just as Sansa had guessed. It was a pity they weren’t fighting with live weapons, but Daenerys had warned her against it. When she’d first asked the Queen for permission to beat the snot out of one of her allies, Daenerys had looked thoughtful for a long while, then sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Try not to murder him, Virzeth Veri. His sister will be rather useful to us, and I would hate to lose an ally so early in the process of gaining a Kingdom.”

So Sansa had let Theon chose the weapons, and he’d chosen the safe option. She’d had half a hope that he’d try something flashy like an arakh, but it seemed that the rash and petulant youth she remembered from her childhood had grown slightly more circumspect since they’d last seen each other.

No matter. She’d smack him around until she felt she could stand to be in the same room as him without screaming, and they’d take the Seven Kingdoms back, and he’d return to the Iron Islands and she’d never have to see his ugly, bug-eyed squid face ever again.

The practise sword she selected was a lighter one, in the Braavosi style. Theon went for a single-handed long sword, common to Westeros. She’d trained with them once or twice — Ser Barristan, upon seeing how dedicated Sansa was with her water dancing and archery had insisted she learn the basics of every weapon he could get his hands on — but she preferred the nippy little blades of the Braavosi. The weights weren’t that different between the two styles of swords, but Sansa _felt_ faster with a Braavosi blade.

She made one or two passes, tempted to show off her handling, but resisted. She wasn’t some green pup, all flash and no substance. She was Virzeth Veri, the Queen’s Champion. She didn’t need fancy tricks.

Sansa and Theon faced each other, and bowed — first to the Queen, and then to each other.

“The bout is over when first blood is drawn,” called the Queen. “Begin!”

Sansa nodded, and didn’t move. She waited, breathing slowly and calmly, feeling the world slow down around her. Theon shrugged, and came in with an overhand strike. Sansa stepped to the side, smacking his sword as it went past, causing Theon to stumble.

He spun around, and rushed at her. Once again, Sansa stepped aside. This time, she smacked him with the flat of her sword to help him past. Theon hit the ground and rolled into a crouch, and before he could get back to his feet, Sansa was on him. She darted in, her blade flashing and aiming for his face, and Theon only just got his sword up in time. The sound of their swords clashing rang out across the training yard, and Theon used his greater upper body strength to push Sansa back as he surged to his feet.

 _Men are stronger in the upper body,_ Inigo had told her early in her training, _But women are stronger lower down. Your center is lower, and that is your strength in a fight. A man can easily overpower you with his arms, but if you drop your weight and pull him down, he has no way to resist._

Sansa grinned, and attacked once again, moving in close so she could slam her elbow into Theon’s stomach and toss him over her hip, dumping him into the dust once again. He clambered to his feet and Sansa pounced, whipping in and out of Theon’s range in a swirl of light butterfly cuts, always dancing closer and closer to him and backing him into a corner. Theon blocked as fast as he could, but in the end, Sansa was faster.

Her long braid whipped around her, the bells flashing and ringing in the air, as Sansa moved in, as quick as lightning, and slashed Theon’s cheek.

They may only have been training swords, but they were sharp enough to part the soft flesh of a face.

Theon dropped his sword with a yell, and brought his hand up to his cheek. Sansa lowered her sword until the tip of it touched his throat, drawing a bright red bead of blood, and Theon froze.

“I will never forgive you for what you did to my family. I will not forget you for what you did to our home. And if you betray me and mine again, it will be the last thing you do.”

Theon closed his eyes, and croaked “I yield.”

Sansa pulled her sword back from his throat and sheathed it in one smooth move, then turned to face the Queen and the other watchers. She bowed in their direction, and stalked off across the training yard.

* * *

Daenerys was highly amused at the stunned looks on Jon Snow and Tyrion’s faces. Jon looked utterly gobsmacked that his sister had just trounced a man grown, whereas Tyrion…

Tyrion looked after Sansa the way Drogo had looked at her — with pride and lust and awe. She wasn’t sure of this man. She didn’t know if he was good enough for her friend. Sansa had told her many stories of his kindness and intelligence, but looking at him...Daenerys couldn’t see this squat little man making her tall friend happy.

But looking at his expression, Daenerys realised that Tyrion would either make Sansa happy — or die in the attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday, someone reading this will actually have knowledge of medieval weaponry, and will have yelled “fucking thank you!” at their screen when they got to the part about how light greatswords actually are.


	4. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know I’m not going to let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne,” said Daenerys.
> 
> “I never expected that you would.”
> 
> “And I haven’t changed my mind about which kingdoms belong to that Throne.”
> 
> “I haven’t either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S07E03 ‘The Queen’s Justice’, S07E06 ‘Beyond the Wall’ and S08E01 ‘Winterfell’.
> 
> Some of my favourite books featuring dragons are Naomi Novik’s _Temeraire_ series, and I couldn’t resist making Daenerys’ dragons a little more like Ms. Novik’s. I may also have borrowed a scene or two from her…

Later in the day, the King and Queen and all their advisors found themselves in the same room once again, gathered around the painted table showing Westeros.

Sansa watched as Jon took a deep breath. “If it please your Grace...my men and I would like to mine dragonglass from your island.”

“Dragonglass?”

“Yes, your Grace. Volcanic glass, known as obsidian.”

Daenerys waved her hand dismissively. “I know what it is. What does the King in the North want with dragonglass?”

“It kills White Walkers,” said Sam, “and their footsoldiers. Or, well, stop them. Destroy them. I’m unsure of the nomenclature, given we are talking about creatures already dead and once again living.”

“Creatures once dead and yet now living,” mused Daenerys as she stood and walked towards the window. 

“It is hard to believe, I know, your Grace,” said Tyrion to her back. “But a wise man once said that just because you don’t want to believe a thing is true that you should not believe that it is.”

“And what wise man was that?” asked Sansa, purposefully coating her voice in sweet innocence.

Tyrion looked awkward, and Sansa was hard pressed not to smile. “I don’t remember,” he said stiffly.

“Are you trying to present your own statements as ancient wisdom?” she asked, arching her eyebrow at Tyrion.

To her delight, he flushed and looked at his hands. “I would never do that...to you,” he said, a soft smile playing at the corner of his eyes.

“As lovely as it is to watch you two make cow eyes at each other,” snapped Olenna, “this is not what we are gathered for. What are we going to do about Cersei? And my granddaughter?”

The shriek of the dragons flying over the ocean split the air as Jon stood and approached the Queen. 

“They are an amazing thing to see,” Jon said softly to Daenerys. Sansa strained to hear their conversation over Oberyn and Olenna beginning to have a spirited argument about how exactly Cersei should meet her death.

“I named them for my brothers,” said Daenerys. “Viserys and Rhaegar. And my husband, Drogo. All of them taken too soon.” 

“People thought dragons were gone forever, yet here they are,” said Jon. “Perhaps we should all be examining what we think we know.”

Sansa saw Daenerys’ shoulders move as she let out a sigh. “You are a persistent one, aren’t you Jon Snow?”

“I’m stubborn, Daenerys Targaryen. It’s a Northern trait.”

“I know it well,” said Daenerys with a glance back at Sansa. Sansa nodded in acknowledgement, unapologetic about eavesdropping. She’d hardly be a good Hand to the Queen if she didn’t gather all the information she could, however she could.

“You know I’m not going to let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne,” said Daenerys.

“I never expected that you would.”

“And I haven’t changed my mind about which kingdoms belong to that Throne.”

“I haven’t either.”

Daenerys smiled. “Good.” She led the way back to the table, and the room fell silent once again.

“We are all here because we want something better for the Seven Kingdoms. For all, in the Seven Kingdoms. As much as I wish otherwise, I must yield to the voices of wisdom that I have gathered around me; the threat of the marching dead in the North is greater than the threat of Cersei Lannister on the Iron Throne. I will remove Cersei Lannister from the Throne, and release your granddaughter,” Daenerys nodded at Olenna, “but together, you have convinced me that there is a greater, more urgent threat. And so, my decision is this: Jon Snow may mine all the dragonglass he wishes, and forge it into weapons. And I will join my force with his, and we will defeat the dead. In return, he shall join us as we march on King’s Landing and overthrow the usurper’s traitorous bride.”

* * *

The logistics were doing Sansa’s head in. It was 3,000 miles from the south of Dorne to The Wall — at 20 miles a day, it would take five months to get the Dornish army in place.

And they didn’t have five months.

“What about ships?” asked Jon. “We can move the armies faster that way.”

“Aye, we can,” said Ser Davos, “but we don’t have the ships. Even with Lady Yara’s help.”

“We torched as many as we could before we left, but my uncle can still command a reasonable fleet. Most of his personal ships he anchored off-shore, the bastard, including the _Silence_. He raised enough hell over the years with that ship alone,” said Yara. “Plus, we need to assume he will join with Cersei, adding the royal fleet to the ships he can command.”

“Most of the royal fleet survived the Battle of Blackwater unscathed because we anchored them in the Rush,” said Tyrion. “They’ve seen little action since, so we must assume that the fleet is at full strength, or nearabouts.”

“In a pitched naval battle the Greyjoy has the advantage,” noted Oberyn. “Many of the ships we can bring to bear are merchant ships or troop transports, not gunships.”

“So we have to march the army north,” said Daenerys. “By land.”

“Even gathering them would take months. By the time we send what ravens we can, couriers to those we don’t have ravens for…” said Varys. “Even my little birds will be unable to get messages to all we need to summon within two months.”

“I could fly,” said Daenerys. “Take Drogon, and fly across the Seven Kingdoms. Bring word of what is happening, and raise an army to ride north with me.”

Sansa could _see_ it — Daenerys on Drogon, flanked by Viserion and Rhaegal, flying over an army of Westerosi. Herself, riding at the front of the army, Lyanna by her side. It was a great, and powerful image. But it wasn’t one she thought Westeros was ready for, not quite yet.

“Your Grace...no. You shouldn’t do that. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms shouldn’t act as a raven,” she said.

“Dark wings, dark words,” muttered Olenna, and Sansa nodded.

“Not all of Westeros has declared for you,” said Oberyn mildly. “Who knows what welcome awaits you, even if you do arrive on the back of a dragon?”

“What harm can possibly come to my children?” said Daenerys. 

“It’s not them we are concerned for,” said Missandei, “it’s you. It only takes one arrow, one bowl of poisoned food...and not only have we lost you, we’ve lost the Seven Kingdoms, and now we have three uncontrollable dragons to try and stop.”

“It’s too big a risk, your Grace,” finished Varys, and the rest of Daenerys’ councillors nodded. “You’re too important.”

“Then what?” said the Queen, obviously frustrated. “I send runners, ravens, ships? We hope and pray that Cersei’s army doesn’t capture them, that Euron’s ships don’t find them? We sit here, mining dragonglass, then heading north, in the hope that the armies from the rest of Westeros will join us in time? Or that they will come at all?”

Sansa shook her head, the bells ringing. “It’s a good idea, to use the dragons to get the word across Westeros. But you shouldn’t be the one to do it.” She looked across the table at Tyrion. “Jon and I should be.”

There were shouts and protestations, but through it all, Tyrion sat quietly and looked thoughtful. And Sansa watched him. She could — and would — argue the others around, but _Tyrion_. Tyrion was the cleverest man she knew. If he had a problem with her suggestion, she would listen. She watched him, watched as he turned the idea over in his head, examined it from all angles, and eventually nodded.

“She’s right.” The room fell silent at Tyrion’s words. “The dragons are the fastest way to get word across Westeros,” Tyrion said. “If you die, your Grace, we’re all lost. Everyone, everything. We can’t risk you.”

“But we can risk me? And my sister?”

Reluctantly, Tyrion nodded. “There is Bran, and Rickon. They are young, and neither is truly fit to be King in the North after you, but they are there. Daenerys has no heirs, not yet. The Winter King has more freedom to risk his life than the Dragon Queen does.”

“And besides, it will send a message of unity better than any other,” said Varys, his clever mind obviously spinning through the implications. “The King of the North, a Stark bastard, entrusted with a Targaryen dragon? If that doesn’t indicate that a strong alliance has been formed because something truly dire is upon us, then nothing will.”

“Especially if the King in the North is accompanied by the Hand of the Targaryen Queen,” said Sansa. “And her personal direwolf, because I shudder to think of what mischief Lyanna would get up to on her own.”

“Drogon won’t carry you,” said Daenerys softly, looking as if she hated the very idea.

Sansa nodded in agreement. “He won’t. But I have a hope that Viserion will. We can at least ask.”

* * *

“Oh, fucking _hell_ ,” Jon cursed as the dragons swooped low overhead. “This is a bad idea.”

“It’s the best idea we have,” said Sansa. “I never took you for a coward, Jon.”

“And I never took you for a madwoman, Sansa, but apparently I was mistaken.”

The two siblings smirked at each other, then a thump beside them caught their attention. Daenerys had called Viserion down, and was now speaking lowly to her dragon, her hand running down his face in a soothing motion.

Lyanna thwaped her tail against the ground and went trotting over to Viserion, looking back at Sansa as if to say _come on!_

“Ready to meet a dragon?” Sansa asked Jon, who gulped and nodded. Sansa was amused to watch him as he drew his shoulders back and straightened imperceptibly, but tried not to show it.

She figured her brother was probably stressed enough about meeting Viserion. He didn’t need his sister laughing at him on top of everything.

Slowly, they walked up to Viserion, who pulled his head up from Daenerys’ pats to look straight at them. He narrowed his eyes, and curled his lips open, showing his teeth. Some of those teeth were nearly as long as Sansa’s forearm — she’d measured them once, when Viserion had been in a patient mood.

“Good afternoon, Viserion,” said Sansa. “May I introduce you to my brother? He very much wishes to make your acquaintance.”

She hadn’t brought any lemoncakes with her this time. Some things were too important for bribes.

Viserion rumbled, and Jon hurriedly bowed to the dragon. “It is an honour to meet you, Viserion.”

Viserion was still rumbling, and Sansa nudged Jon with her elbow. “Take off your glove, and offer your hand so he can smell it,” she whispered.

“My hand? I use my hand! I like my hand!” he whispered back.

“I can hear you, and so can Viserion,” said Daenerys, sounding far too amused.

Gulping, Jon did as he was told, removing his glove and holding his hand — his left hand, not his sword hand, Sansa noted with some amusement — out to Viserion to sniff. 

He halted with his hand before Viserion, and the cream and gold dragon’s rumbling intensified. Still, Jon stood his ground, his arm outstretched and starting to shake from fear as Viserion once again pulled his lips back to bare his teeth.

“Please don’t eat me,” breathed Jon, and Viserion snorted, then pushed his nose into Jon’s hand.

Jon instinctively started petting Viserion, whose rumbles had turned from threatening to pleased, and turned his head to stare wide-eyed at Sansa.

“I’m petting a dragon,” he breathed. Sansa beamed at him, and joined in. 

“You are.”

“He’s...almost soft.” 

The two siblings stood side by side, the wind whipping at their cloaks as they gently stroked Viserion’s nose.

“Aren’t my children beautiful?” said Daenerys as she came around the side of Viserion’s head to join them. 

“Beautiful isn’t the word I would use,” said Jon distractedly. Daenerys’ face clouded with thunder, and Jon hurried to explain. “It’s...not enough to encompass them. They are more than beautiful, your Grace. They are...beyond words.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” Daenerys replied. “But just stroking Viserion’s nose won’t get you very far. Let’s see if he will let you ride him.”

“I don’t know how to ride a dragon,” said Jon, looking as worried as Sansa felt.

“No one does, until they ride a dragon,” replied Daenerys. 

“What if Viserion doesn’t want us to?” he asked.

Daenerys put her face on Viserion’s cheek and laughed softly. “Then I will have enjoyed your company, Jon Snow, and you can enjoy being the first King of the North to be killed by a dragon in hundreds of years.”

“Jon, we’ll be fine,” chided Sansa, trying to sound more confident than she felt. As affectionate as Viserion could be, he was still a dragon — still a wild, tempestuous, willful creature of legend.

Much like Lyanna, come to think of it. Just...bigger.

With that comforting thought, Sansa gave Viserion’s nose a last pat, and stepped back. “Would you mind terribly, Viserion, if my brother and I were to ride upon you? We have to travel very fast, and very far, and we cannot do it without you.”

Viserion reared back onto his haunches and looked at them consideringly. 

“Please, Viserion,” said Sansa.

“Please,” echoed Jon.

Viserion’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head to the side, before dropping down and tilting his shoulder to the ground in clear invitation. 

Sansa breathed “thank you,” and placed her hand on Viserion’s shoulder, like she’d seen Daenerys do with Drogon. Cautiously, she climbed her way up Viserion’s great bulk, using his scaley hind and the small horns jutting from him as hand holds. After what felt like an eternity, she found herself straddling the dragon’s great neck, looking out over the world.

She ran her hand over Viserion’s neck, and quietly thanked the dragon once again as Jon started his climb up. Her brother settled behind her, and Daenerys stepped back to give Viserion room to take off.

“You might want to hold on tighter than that,” Sansa told Jon, and leaned forward. “ _Tīkun!_ ” she said, and Viserion took several lurching steps and dropped off the cliff.

* * *

Tyrion stood in the window of the tower, watching as Daenerys, Sansa and Jon walked towards the cliff where the dragons seemed to like to land. He remembered his own experience of meeting a dragon and was pleased that Jon was getting to experience the wonder himself.

Though he was maybe slightly jealous that Jon would get to ride on a dragon. Tyrion thought he would quite like to ride a dragon — especially if being on said dragon meant pressing close to Sansa.

A footfall behind him alerted him to another presence, so Tyrion wasn’t startled when Jorah Mormont entered his field of vision and stopped beside him.

“I was there when the Khaleesi first flew on Drogon,” the tall knight said quietly. “It was unexpected. We were attacked while we were resting from the midday sun on a march. It was a shit of a location — a narrow gorge with terrible sight lines, and our company stretched out too long and thin to be of any use. We’d thought our outriders had cleared any hostile forces away, but they’d been picked off too quickly for any alarms to be raised. Her silver had stumbled on some loose rock and pulled a muscle, so the Khaleesi was walking. I was too far away to save her when they struck, hard and fast.”

They watched as Viserion landed, and Daenerys went to greet the smallest of her children.

“But then out of nowhere, during the haze of confusion and dust and screaming as the Unsullied and the Dothraki tried to boil up out of the gorge to attack our attackers and defend the Khaleesi all at once, the dragons came. They used their flames to drive the enemy back. Rhaegal in particular is so damned accurate that he can kill a man and leave the Dothraki fighting him alive and unharmed, ready to find a new opponent. And somehow — I never figured out how — Drogon rose above the battle carrying the Queen, safe on his back.”

Tyrion still didn’t take his eyes off the scene of Sansa and Jon greeting Viserion, but he was listening.

“Ever since then, they’ve been fiercely protective of their mother, and since Lady Sansa came to us, protective of her too.”

“Is this the part where you tell me that if I hurt her, you’ll hurt me?”

Mormont laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, no. If you hurt her, Virzeth Veri will hurt you right back. And then the dragons and the direwolf will shit out your remains. But the question remains — what does Lady Stark, Princess of the North, Virzeth Veri, Friend of the Dothraki, Mother of Direwolves and Hand of the Targaryen Queen see in an old, scared, disinherited Lannister dwarf? Why did she turn down every offer she got from men in Essos — offers from Braavosi noblemen, Meereenese masters. I know that many of the Dothraki took an interest in her — men and women both. She turned every single one of them down for you. And now that I see you, I can’t help but wonder — why?” 

Out the window, Sansa and Jon took flight.

* * *

Sansa Stark had thought she was very brave. She’d survived King’s Landing and had ridden the Valyerian roads in a company of Dothraki. She’d defeated the Meereenese champion and offered her life, and her service, to the daughter of the man who had killed her grandfather. Bravery was something Sansa thought she had.

Plunging off a cliff on the back of a dragon was enough to make her knees knock, however, and she squeezed them even tighter around Viserion.

Unfortunately, the dragon seemed to take that as instruction to go faster, and with a powerful snap of his wings shot up into the air. Sansa’s instinct was to snap her eyes shut.

Behind her, Jon was clinging on for dear life, and Sansa could vaguely hear him saying “shitshitshitshitshit” very quietly from where his head was buried in her neck.

It made her feel better, that even her older brother, a veteran of the The Wall and presumably someone who was used to heights, was scared too.

When they didn’t fall backwards off the dragon and die, Sansa eventually managed to convince herself to open her eyes, and then she was hard pressed to remember how to blink.

It seemed like the whole world was spread out before her. Dragonstone — a sizeable island some 20 miles in length — looked no bigger than a dinner plate, and the ships anchored in the harbour looked like toy boats. It was hard to not think of herself as Queen of the world when she saw it spread out around her like this. Riding Viserion felt like riding a warm avalanche, and she realised why Daenerys had largely given up riding horses unless it was absolutely necessary. 

Flying was _amazing_. 

Viserion suddenly dropped into a sharp dive and Sansa let out a sheer shriek of joy, even as the wind tore tears from her eyes. Viserion plummeted down towards the waves and then at the last minute pulled up — a shark held in his mighty talons. The dragon hovered in place, his wings beating perpendicular to his body in swivelling arcs as he craned his long neck down to tear into the shark. The bits of shark that fell into the water attracted more fish to the area, and soon enough Drogon and Rhaegal had also come winging over to feed. 

Sansa nudged her elbow backwards into Jon. “Jon! Are you going to cling to me the entire time we fly around Westeros? Or are you going to pay attention to what’s happening?”

With a grumble, Jon finally lifted his head, and let his breath out with a soft “oh.”

Brother and sister sat, wordlessly looking around them at the world, until at last Viserion rose his head back up and started to fly forward again, his snack finished, and Sansa decided now would be the best time to try and see if she could control where Viserion went.

 _I just...think really hard where I want them to go, and they tend to go there,_ Daenerys had said, which Sansa thought was spectacularly unhelpful. The dragons wore no bridles, no reins, and Sansa didn’t think that _thinking really hard_ would be helpful at all.

Sansa supposed that it was more that Daenerys, in thinking where she wanted her dragon to take her, was subconsciously using her seat to signal her mount. Some of the Dothraki in Khal Onobo’s khalasaar were such good riders that they never rode with a bridle at all, and although Sansa hadn’t been brave enough to try it herself, she’d learned as much as she could from them.

Those thoughts in mind, Sansa squeezed her right leg in, and shifted her weight ever-so-slightly in that direction, and Viserion promptly turned to the right. She tried the same signal with her left, and Viserion moved in that direction. She already knew that squeezing tight with her legs made Viserion fly faster, and she experimented with sitting up slightly, which indeed slowed Viserion down.

After nearly an hour of swooping around the seas surrounding Dragonstone — and flying the length of the island and back again, Sansa felt that she and Viserion understood each other well enough that the mad plan of using Viserion and herself as couriers could almost work. There was just one more thing that Sansa wanted to try.

She directed Viserion to a desolate bluff jutting out over the ocean where Inigo had placed a straw man on a pole anchored in place with rocks around it’s base. She leaned forward over Viserion’s neck, and felt the great body of the dragon gather and plunge into a dive towards it.

“Dracarys!” she yelled, and Viserion roared and blew fire on the straw figure.

As Viserion pulled himself out of the dive, Sansa risked a look back. Behind them, only a black mark on the ground showed the straw man had ever been there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can confirm that this fic is going to be 15 chapters long - I've finished writing them, now I just need to stop faffing about with commas and send them off to my beta. 
> 
> I'll then get started on the next (and probably final) fic in this saga - I think I know the line it is going to end on - and I have ideas for an actual Regency romance featuring Sansa and Tyrion, as well as a first words soulmates AU about our favourite couple. Votes for either of them?


	5. More Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was there, my lady. I saw what role you played, and how you directed the conversation today. Take the compliment, Sansa. Your actions today may not get noted down in the histories or made into songs, but today you made the world a better place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue from S07E03 ‘The Queen’s Justice’ and S08E01 ‘Winterfell’. 
> 
> I’m basing my descriptions of the Dothraki and their horses from Mongolian culture, and I got super inspired by a scene in [Angelic_Temptress’](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelic_Temptress/pseuds/Angelic_Temptress) [‘An Old Lion Amongst Young Wolves’](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696081) when I was writing this...you should go and check it out!

The door to his room slammed, and Tyrion started so bad the wine splashed out of his cup onto his tunic. “Dammit!”

He turned to see Sansa standing in the doorway, her hair in complete disarray and a flush on her cheeks.

“Tyrion —” she gasped, and stumbled towards him. “Oh, Tyrion, you should have, should have — you should have been there. Flying, Tyrion! I flew!”

She landed on her knees beside him, her eyes sparkling, and reached for his wine. She stole it and gulped it down. “Sorry, I know, terribly forward of me, but I needed it to stop the shaking. Tyrion, it was so magnificent. So...breathtaking. We could see for miles, and Viserion flies so fast. So fast! It was like riding an avalanche! A living, breathing avalanche. He was so fast, and so strong, and we flew so high! And he can dive so fast — we were skimming across the waves and it felt like I could just put my hand out and touch the water and I have never felt so free, Tyrion. So free and like nothing bad could ever touch me again.”

She stared at him, her eyes shining, and Tyrion felt his heart clench as Mormont’s words ran through his head. _What does she see in you?_

“Sansa —” he began, when she surged forward and captured his lips in a kiss. He froze, unbelieving, and after interminable seconds Sansa pulled back.

She looked even more flushed now, out of sheer embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I just...it was so fantastic, Tyrion. I wished you’d been there, and when I landed all I wanted to do was tell someone, and then I realised all I wanted to do was tell you because I know how much you’ve dreamed of flying on a dragon ever since you were young and just...the words weren’t enough so I thought maybe kissing you would be a good idea and I don’t know why I thought that.”

For once, words had utterly escaped Tyrion. He could only gape at Sansa, who began to fidget awkwardly.

“I’m sorry my lord. I’ll just...I’ll just go.” 

Sansa made to stand, and Tyrion’s hand tightened on hers without any input from his brain. 

“No, don’t,” he said, when she froze. “I’m sorry my lady, you just took me by surprise. My thoughts this evening were rather glum, and then you were here, and it merely took my brain some time to catch up with what was happening.”

She settled back down beside him. “Glum thoughts, my lord? Is there anything I could help with?”

He shook his head, pushing Mormont’s voice out of his mind as far as he could reach. “Merely your presence makes things better, my lady.”

He reached his other hand forward and brushed part of Sansa’s hair out of her face, and leaned in to kiss her back.

Except before his lips could touch hers they were interrupted by a pissy sounding “a-hem!” from the doorway.

Sansa pulled back, and Tyrion looked over her shoulder to see Varys smirking at them. “The Queen requires your council, Lady Sansa. At once.”

Sansa sighed, and dropped her head onto their joined hands. “Forgive me, my lord, but when the Queen says jump…”

“Her Hand must jump,” finished Tyrion. He raised their hands and brushed a gentle kiss over the back of Sansa’s. “We can resume this later, I am sure.”

Her eyes searched his, and she nodded, before gracefully standing and departing.

“I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?” said Varys, his tone making it clear he wasn’t sorry at all, and in fact knew exactly what he’d interrupted.

“You should consider yourself lucky,” said Tyrion as he struggled to get himself under control. “No one can ever interrupt you at such things, seeing as you have no balls to turn blue.”

“You take great offense at dwarf jokes, but love telling eunuch jokes. Why is that?” asked Varys as he helped himself to the wine.

“Because I have balls,” said Tyrion, holding out his glass for a refill. “And you don’t.”

* * *

The next morning, the negotiations resumed.

“There is one thing that concerns me,” said Daenerys as they were all settled again. “You have named your brothers your heirs?”

“Not formally,” said Jon, “but as far as the North knows, they are my only living relatives.”

“I had promised the North to Sansa,” said Daenerys. “She is Ned Stark’s eldest trueborn child.”

“But I am his eldest child, and King of the North.”

“I promised the North to Sansa.”

“The North is mine.”

“And both of you are being stupid,” interrupted Sansa, already sick of their argument. “Jon, I have no desire to be Queen of the North, nor to try and usurp you. Name me Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, formally. I’m younger than you but older than Bran and Rickon, so by Northern law I’m next in line as father’s heir as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North anyway. Father never declared himself King, so there is no reason for me to declare myself Queen. The North will be mine anyway, once you go south to King’s Landing.”

“Why would I go south to King’s Landing? Stark men don’t fare well in the south, remember?”

“Because the most sensible way to resolve the question of bending the knee is for you to marry the Queen and rule at her side.”

There was an explosion of noise, but mostly from Daenerys and Jon themselves. The rest of the room looked thoughtful, and some of the faster thinkers were already nodding — first Tyrion, then Olenna, Varys, and Oberyn.

“Jon, the North won’t take it well if you come back to Winterfell having bent the knee to a Targaryen Queen,” said Tyrion when the complaints petered off. “I’m not a Northerner, but even I can see that.”

“The Imp has the right of it,” said Ser Jorah. “I know and love my Queen, but to the typical Northerner, it won’t look good. The King in the North bowing the knee to an untried, unproven woman when the strength of the North needs to stand firm? They’ll have your head on a spike, and likely hers too.”

“But if you return to Winterfell with dragons, and Unsullied, and Dothraki, and a beautiful woman as your betrothed, and she helps you defeat the Night King...well, that’s a different story,” said Sansa, hoping her brother and her queen would see sense. 

“They’d probably offer you up as thanks — or at least, as a way to hope that the dragons don’t turn on them,” said Oberyn.

“It’s normally a girl’s hand in marriage offered in exchange for needed military support,” remarked Olenna. “It’s quite nice to see it works the other way as well.”

Jon and Daenerys looked around the room — really, anywhere but at each other — but with all of their supporters united against them, it seemed that the conversation was over. 

“After all, the Queen shouldn’t marry anywhere other than King’s Landing,” said Tyrion. “So it makes sense: go North, defeat the Night King, then when you return to the South, all triumphant, you can wed. It will be a lovely ceremony; a chance for the country to celebrate the end of the Long Night. New alliances formed, old enemies defeated, a beautiful young queen on the throne with her handsome Northern husband, peace in our times, and wine and mead for all. Just let’s not murder anyone at your wedding, hmm?” he finished, looking at Olenna with suspicion in her eyes.

She shrugged. “It was your father who gave us the idea. Though I didn’t realise it would be so awful — the clawing at the neck, the foam and bile spilling from his mouth, eyes blood-red and skin purple. A shocking scene, really. And one that I hope to never see again. So mind yourself, lass,” Olenna said to Daenerys. “Westeros has had enough of mad kings — first your father, then that Joffrey boy. The Great Houses won’t stand for it, not again.”

Her steely gaze brooked no argument, although Sansa could see that both Daenerys and Jon desperately wanted to argue. Daenerys was clearly horrified that a confessed regicide was sitting at her table and threatening her, while Sansa was sure that the death of Joffrey, as awful as he was, had deeply offended Jon’s honour.

“Neither my brother nor my Queen is likely to need your services, Lady Olenna,” said Sansa, hoping to keep the peace. “There is no need for the Strangler, or any other poison. As Hand of the Queen and Warden of the North, I hope you will come to me should you have any concerns about either my Queen or my brother’s rule — that any of you come to me with such concerns,” she said, slowly looking everyone around the table with a steady gaze. “I cannot speak for life under Aerys, but life under Joffrey was a horrendous proposition. He was cruel, and mad —”

“And killed more than one whore, and maimed several maids besides,” interjected Tyrion.

Sansa nodded at him before continuing. “With all due respect, Jon, my Queen, you weren’t there. You didn’t see what we saw, and you didn’t experience what we experienced. Olenna Tyrell acted in the best interests of the Realm — though perhaps she could have done so in a less dramatic fashion.”

Olenna shrugged. “It worked. That was the main thing.”

“I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms —” started Daenerys, and Sansa cut her off with a raised hand.

“You are, your Grace. And you have also said, many times, that you intend to break the wheel. To build something new in its place. And as your advisors, we are telling you — whatever you build, it will need to have a mechanism for removing rulers if they go insane or are otherwise unfit to rule. Or else we will continue to act on our own, doing what we feel is best for the Realm, potentially plunging all Seven Kingdoms back into civil war again. And the Kingdoms — our supplies, our people — cannot afford that again. Not for a long while.”

Daenerys nodded, and Jon looked stoically thoughtful. “You are right, Virzeth Veri,” said Daenerys. “Foolish to challenge me so, but right. What suggestions would you have for how to remove an unsuitable ruler from the Throne?”

The negotiations continued all day, and long into the night.

* * *

Sansa’s head would not stop swirling. The arguments and deliberations had lasted all day, and although the question of how to remove an unsuitable ruler had been resolved, it worried Sansa. They were settling matters that weren’t really that important, at least not until the Night King was defeated.

 _If only Tyrion hadn’t egged Olenna on like that!_ she thought

But she knew that it was better to have these things in place at the outset. _It’s easier to adapt plans than have to come up with entirely new ones. Just like it’s easier to change the pattern of a dress you already know well, rather than come up with an entirely new one._

Sansa hadn’t had a chance to sew for a while, and found she missed it. It was soothing, sitting down and letting her fingers work while her brain thought over things.

It had been especially pleasant spending evenings with Tyrion — her sewing while he read. Those were some of her best memories of her marriage to him.

 _Are we even still married?_ she wondered. _It is perhaps something we should discuss. If we are not married, there will be pressure on both of us — particularly on me — to marry. He may have been disinherited, but I’m the Heir to the North. Which means I need to provide my own heirs to the North._

Her busy mind immediately tried to work out who from among the Great Houses was within a suitable age range for her to marry, and realised she didn’t know enough about the effect the long and bloody war for the Iron Throne had had on the nobles of Westeros. She would have to seek out Varys’ advice in the morning. See if he knew who was still available. 

In the meantime, she called for a maid, hoping a warm bath would help calm her mind and soothe her to sleep.

* * *

It had been a long day, and Tyrion was looking forward to it being over. The wonderful dark liquid from Essos couldn’t keep a man awake indefinitely, he’d found — he’d managed to stay awake for several days by drinking it constantly, then had fallen asleep half-way through his dinner one night.

Fortunately, it was only at a quiet dinner of himself, Jon, and Davos, but still. _Mortifying_ , landing face first into his stew like that.

But before he could sleep, he wanted to see Sansa again. She’d been breathtaking today — arguing firmly and fairly for a mechanism to remove an unsuitable ruler. He was beyond proud of the way that through her actions and words today, she was helping to usher in a new world in Westeros — a world where a monarch did not rule with absolute power and freedom, but rather one where a monarch knew that they sat on the Iron Throne not only by the grace of the gods but also the grace of their noble houses. He could see problems with such a system, of course — the Great Houses could band together to overthrow a ruler they didn’t like and replace them with one they could find it easier to cajole — but it was a good start. 

And he wanted to tell her that.

He wandered the hallways, rueing that he didn’t know where in this damned castle Sansa was staying. He’d never been to Dragonstone before, and the castle was laid out in a confusing manner. The very stones themselves were twisted into strange, fanciful, almost ornate shapes, nothing like he had ever seen before. Dragons where everywhere — dragon claws holding torches, small dragons framing gates and random doorways (Tyrion had initially thought these signified important rooms, but upon checking a few had found a music room, an elaborate solar, and a cupboard full of spare linens), and a pair of great wings covering the armory and smithy, long gone cold. The Dothraki did not shoe their horses as the Westerosi did, and although there was an armourer who had travelled from Essos with the Queen’s party, neither the Unsullied nor the Dothraki seemed to have any need for him.

He found himself at a window overlooking a garden that had a pleasant piney scent and sighed in frustration. He was completely turned around, and couldn’t even work out how to get into the garden. Footsteps echoing down the corridor let him know that he wasn’t alone, and he hoped that whoever was approaching would be able to show him where to go.

It was Missandei, the Queen’s orator. “Lady Missandei,” he greeted, grateful that it was someone he almost knew.

“Lord Tyrion,” smiled Missandei. “Are you enjoying the view of Aegon’s Garden?”

“Oh, is that what it is,” he said. “How do you get there?”

Missandei smiled, and came to stand at the window with him. “You have to climb down the arch of the Dragon’s Tail.” She gestured across to where he could just make out through the twilight a steeply curved wall leading into the garden.

“It looks very steep,” he said.

Missandei nodded. “Maester Pylos has no talent for gardens, it seems, and has left it largely to go to seed. Lady Olenna was horrified when she learned the garden hadn’t been tended for many moons, and upon finding the stairs down to the garden were difficult to navigate with a cane ordered several of the Unsullied to carry her down.”

Tyrion snorted. “That sounds like her.”

Missandei grinned. “In the end, she wound up with one Unsullied and one Dothraki to help her. Steady Link thinks he used to be a gardener’s son before he was taken to be an Unsullied, as he is good with the plants. Najo is not good with plants, but he is strong and he and Lady Olenna seem to be equally amused by each other, so it works. But I do not think you have strolled so far from your rooms to hear about Lady Olenna’s gardeners.”

“No, my lady, I have not. I was looking for the Lady Sansa. I wished to speak with her.”

Missandei looked puzzled. “My lord, her rooms are in Sea Dragon Tower, same as yours.”

“They are?”

“Yes. Directly above yours.”

He blinked at her, and then looked uncertainly about. “...where is Sea Dragon Tower?”

Missandei shook her head with a smile and turned around. “This way, my Lord. I’ll take you back there, and perhaps next time, you won’t wander the halls of Dragonstone alone.”

“I imagine the halls of Dragonstone to be safe, given all who reside here,” said Tyrion as he fell into step with her.

Missandei shrugged. “This place...this place is very different to where we have been before. It is almost as if it were a living thing. An unhappy, malicious living thing. Her Grace was born here and does not feel it, but she is a Targaryen of Old Valyria. Although the butterfly fever protected Naath from the worst of the Valyrian Imperialism, they still came, and their tower remains. The Naathi know the feeling of Valyrian magic. The Lord of Harmony bids us to do no harm to others, as what always is will always be, and thus we did not remove the tower. So it stays, like an itch you can’t quite scratch, and no one of any sense remains near it for very long.”

They’d been moving swiftly through the halls and up several staircases, and eventually came to a door that smelled vaguely of lemons. 

“These are Lady Sansa’s chambers. If you take that staircase over there,” Missandei pointed, “they will return you to yours.”

“Thank you, Lady Missandei.”

“You are welcome, Lord Tyrion. After all, those of us with impossible loves should support each other where we can.”

With that statement she smiled and continued on her way. Tyrion tugged at his clothes to neaten them, then raised his hand and knocked on the heavy wooden door. “Lady Sansa?” he called. “May I have a word?”

A sudden splashing was his response. “A moment, please!” yelped Sansa, and Tyrion rocked back on his heels, trying not to picture what Sansa would look like in a bath.

He wasn’t very successful.

After an eternity of looking at the small carvings around the doors and trying very hard not to think of Sansa’s creamy skin surrounded by bubbles, he was summoned into her rooms and hoped like hell that his tunic hid the fact he hadn’t managed to stop himself from getting hard.

When he entered her rooms and the warm, lemon-scented air hit him fully, it was all he could do to not moan with desire.

The room was softly lit by hundreds of flickering candles, and Sansa was seated at her vanity, her hair cascading down her right shoulder and her robe showing off her shapely calves and dainty feet.

He was instantly transported back to when they had shared a room together all those years before, but he was fairly sure she’d never looked like this then. The young girl he’d married had truly matured into a stunning woman, and he wondered at how he was fortunate enough to be in her presence.

“My lady. I am sorry for disturbing you so late,” he said.

She shook her head, and some of her hair slipped from her shoulder down her back. He ached to run a comb through it and braid it for her — to sit close to her, to care for her and pamper her and show her how much he loved her.

The thought made him start. _Do I love her? I barely know her!_

He was so distracted by his sudden thoughts that he missed her response, and it was only when she touched his hand that he realised she’d crossed the room to him and handed him a glass of wine.

“It is not that late, my lord. What brings you here?” she asked as she returned to her vanity, and he settled himself on the bench beside her.

“I simply wanted to congratulate you on what you achieved today, my lady,” he said, taking a sip of the wine. It was slightly spiced and very rich, slipping easily down his throat. “It was wonderfully done.”

He raised his glass to her in salute. 

“My lord, it was nothing,” she demurred, and he shook his head sharply.

“It wasn’t nothing. My lady, of the people in that room, there are precious few who could recognise what you did today. And even fewer who could have done it themselves. You have a unique set of skills, Sansa — you know the North, and you know the South. You know how to navigate the politics of both, and how to get them to pull together. You stared down a woman who has control of three dragons, and got her to agree to your ideas. Moreover, today you helped establish a means by which Westeros will no longer be ruled by a crazed or otherwise unsuitable ruler. It is the single largest change to how Westeros is ruled since Aegon’s Conquest first united the kingdoms. And it was created by you.”

“Many others help-”

“They did, but I was there, Sansa. I saw what role you played, and how you directed the conversation today. Take the compliment, my lady. Your actions today may not get noted down in the histories or made into songs, but today you made the realm a better place.”

Sansa looked down and fiddled with her glass, and he reached out and touched her hand. “Thank you, my lord. To hear such praise from someone as clever as you means a lot.”

She transferred her glass to her other hand, and flipped her hand over and tangled their fingers together. Tyrion became suddenly aware that he could feel the heat of her leg through her robe. Her very thin robe. Her very thin robe that had an opening right _there_. If he moved his hand over ever so slightly he could slip his hand into her robe and touch her skin. 

_Is she bare under her robe?_ he wondered. _She was in the bath when I knocked — it’s still right there, still steaming._ He examined her with a critical eye, trying to see the lines of her night clothes under robe, and saw nothing. As far as his practised eye could tell, Sansa Stark had let him into her rooms wearing nothing but a slip of silk over her still-damp body.

He slipped his fingers from hers, and lightly stroked his fingers across the palm of her hand. She shivered, and he ran his fingers from the palm of her hand up and over her wrist before placing his hand on her leg.

Sansa gulped, and uncrossed and recrossed her legs — trapping his hand between her thighs. It was his turn to gulp at that point, and Sansa smiled. She placed her wine glass behind her on the vanity and leaned over to take his glass, finishing it before placing it down. 

“My Lord, are you trying to seduce me?” she asked, tangling her hands in his hair and bringing their faces close together.

“I only meant to thank you for the work you did for the realm,” he said, his voice husky with desire.

Sansa licked her lips, and raised her top leg slightly so his hand could move again. Tyrion instantly started stroking her leg, pulling the silk back until his fingers touched the bare skin of her thigh. When his fingers made contact, her eyes dilated, and he could see her nipples harden through the thin silk of the robe. 

“I only want to do what is best for the realm,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. 

“The realm thanks you, it really does,” he responded, and Sansa grabbed him and pulled his face to hers, claiming his lips in a demanding kiss. He clutched at her thigh to keep his balance, and Sansa groaned, then licked at his lips with her tongue. He tilted his head as she took control of the kiss, feeling like every nerve in his body was on fire. His clothes were too tight and his head was spinning with the scent of lemons and the taste of the wine on her tongue. He was nearly overwhelmed with desire, and slowly started to stroke her leg again, gradually inching his hand higher and higher, even as his other hand came across to steady himself on her hip.

Sansa’s hands had left his hair and were running down his body, making quick work of the fastenings to his coat. “Fair’s fair,” she whispered, breaking from the kiss to lick her lips, before with a flurry of silk she was sitting in his lap, her legs on either side of him. Her robe was gaping open at the front now, and his hand spasmed on her hip when he saw the soft curve of her breasts were now barely covered. She smiled, and leaned into to nip at the tender skin under his ear as her hands divested him of his coat and started to pluck at the cotton ties of his undershirt. His other hand, still on her thigh, resumed stroking and she shuddered, making him shudder as well. He leaned forward so she could pull his shirt off, and once it was off she sat back slightly, looking at him.

Her eyes were sad, and she traced some of the marks on him. “These are new,” she said, her voice as soft as her fingers.

“The Wall is not an easy place,” he said. “But I didn’t think you had paid enough attention to me to notice.”

Sansa laughed, her whole body shaking, and he felt his prick twitch in response. “I always paid attention to you, my lord. How could I not, when I slept wrapped in your arms and would wake up to this poking me in the hip most mornings?” 

She pulled herself forward so her center was right over his cock, and he could feel her warmth through his breeches. Sansa lowered her lips and began to kiss some of the new scars and stroke others, and Tyrion thought it was about time for him to have some payback. He pulled his hand from her thigh and used it to pluck her robe more open, exposing one of her breasts and it’s dusky nipple to his gaze. He began to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses down from her collarbone towards her nipple, cradling her firm breast in his hand as he did so. When his lips finally touched her nipple she groaned and ground down on his cock, which was painfully straining at his breeches. 

“Oh! Tyrion!” she gasped, and arched her back so her breast was even closer to him, her robe slipping more open so both breasts were exposed to the night air — and to him. He ran his hand up from her hip to play with her other nipple, causing her to moan and clutch at him. He swapped from one to the other with his mouth, coaxing each into peaks before replacing his mouth with his hand, steadily driving her wilder and wilder. Sansa’s hands were tangled in his hair as she moaned for more, and he slid one of his hands down to where the belt was barely holding her robe closed, then even lower still. He brushed the hair covering her mound with his fingers and put his hand on her thigh, then slowly slid it up to her most private of places.

His fingers were a hair’s breadth from touching her wetness when a knock at the door caused them both to freeze.

“Sansa?” called Jon as he began to push open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely feedback I got on what I should write next - I'm going with the Regency fic, as well as working on the next story in this verse. The Regency fic is heavily based on Lauren Willig's "The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla", and so far the summary is this:  
>  _Partway through her first season, debutante Lady Sansa Stark has had enough of the endless parties and balls. When Sansa hears a rumour that the reclusive Duke of Casterly is a demon, she cannot resist the challenge of proving such nonsense false. At a ball in Casterly Square she ventures across the gardens and encounters the mysterious duke — a man more interesting than any she’s found in King’s Landing society so far._  
>  _Tyrion Lannister, Duke of Casterly, is well versed in rumour and ruin. He has returned home to face the rumours of scandal surrounding his parents’ deaths, which hint at everything from treason to dark sorcery. Scorning the expectations of a society that never welcomed him, he enjoys his reputation as a demonic imp — until a young woman is found dead in a summoning circle of blood and ash at his cousin Cersei’s debutante ball._  
>  _Sansa and Tyrion join forces to stop the so-called demon from killing again. Someone managed to get away with killing Tywin, the last Duke of Casterly. But they won’t kill this duke — not if Sansa has anything to say about it._  
>  Now I just need to write the darn thing. And come up with a title...


	6. Agreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was a fool, and I didn’t treat you as I should have. Let us be betrothed, and if we survive this war, let us marry at Winterfell, before the heart tree. Let us make Winterfell your home once again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved all the reactions to last week's chapter! (honestly it's worth scrolling through the comments because some amazing things got said)
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S01E01 ‘Winter is Coming’, S02E02 ‘The Night Lands’, and THAT LINE from S08E03 ‘The Long Night’.

The next morning was...awkward. Last night there had been lots of yelling and blustering, and in the end Sansa had been very glad that Jon hadn’t had his sword with him.

But now it was a new day and Sansa couldn’t stop blushing any time Tyrion looked at her, and Jon was glaring at Tyrion so hard she was amazed he hadn’t burst into flame from Jon’s anger.

Ser Davos looked confused that his friends weren’t talking to each other and wouldn’t explain why, and so he came and sat with Sansa while they waited for Daenerys to enter and the day’s negotiations to begin.

Sansa liked Ser Davos. He was a kind man, who she instinctively trusted. In a way, he reminded her of Ser Rodrik, the old master-of-arms at Winterfell, as well as of her father. He was plain spoken and honest, and told the story of how he came to have lost the tips of his fingers on his right hand without flinching. 

“Oh, it was a while ago, my lady, and it was fairly done. I’d avoided punishment too long, and by rights Stannis could have strung me up for what I did. Having one slightly shorter hand isn’t much, compared to that, and I like to think the bones give me luck.”

“Luck, ser Davos?”

“Well, yes, my lady. You see, I’m still here.”

Sansa was unable to question Davos more as Daenerys swept into the room and took her seat. Tyrion, who had been hanging back near the coffee pot, slid into the seat on Sansa’s other side, making Jon glower at them.

“So. We have a plan for how to spread the news of the war in the North and raise the armies of Westeros, and we came to an agreement over the role of the Great Houses in preventing a madman ruling Westeros. Is there any other business that we need to discuss before we depart to prepare for this war?”

Jon spoke up. “I’d like to discuss my sister’s marriage.”

Sansa fought frantically not to blush, but she guessed she hadn’t succeeded.

“She was married to Lord Tyrion, wasn’t she?” asked Olenna, utterly failing at sounding innocent. “I certainly don’t recall a septon dissolving their union. Surely your sister is still married in the eyes of the Seven, Lord Snow.”

“Except Tyrion was accused of murder and stripped of his titles,” said Jon mulelishly. “She was married to Tyrion Lannister. Now he is Tyrion Hill, does that marriage still hold?”

Daenerys looked thoughtful, and slowly tapped her fingers on the table. “You raise a good point, your Grace,” she said. “It doesn’t look well if the Lady of Winterfell is married to a penniless, disinherited son.”

Sansa found herself glaring at Daenerys. “My Queen, perhaps this is a conversation we should have in private?”

Daenerys glared back in return. “Why? You chose to discuss my marriage amongst these people, why should I not discuss yours in turn?”

“You are a Queen,” said Sansa through clenched teeth. “Your marriage is a matter of state.”

“And you are Hand to the Queen,” responded Daenerys, “and sister of a King. You are the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North. If you think that your marriage is not also a political matter then you’re a fool.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes and refused to back down, until Olenna broke the tense silence. “Willas!” she said, brightly. “My eldest grandson. Lovely boy, heir to Highgarden. Of an age with you, Sansa. He’d make a good match.”

“As would Quentyn, my nephew,” said Oberyn challengingly. “Trystan is closer in age, but he and Princess Myrcella are devoted to each other. Quentyn’s sensible and dutiful, and skilled with a blade.” He winked, just in case there were some who did not understand his double meaning.

Yara joined the fray. “I’d suggest Theon, but he’s not fit for marriage,” she said, blithely ignoring the way Sansa growled at his name. “Lord Maron Volmark might do instead, however. Strapping young thing. Fills out his breeches well, if you know what I mean,” she said with a leer. “And while he’s the Lord of his own house, he’s not in the Greyjoy line of succession, so your children can inherit Winterfell rather than Pyke. He also has a decent amount of gold — and several ships.”

“You raise a good point,” said Lady Olenna begrudgingly. “If she marries Willas, she would have to leave Winterfell and her brother would inherit. Another boy might be better suited — Lady Arywn Oakheart has a nephew or two that could do very well for Lady Sansa. Sensible creatures, the Oakhearts. What they lack in wealth they certainly have in lands.”

“I think I know Ser Arys Oakheart,” said Oberyn consideringly. “He came to Dorne with Princess Myrcella. If his cousins are anything like him they must be fine gentlemen indeed. But it is moot — if we wed Sansa to Quentyn he could live with her in Winterfell because his elder sister is the heir to Dorne. And his dowry is considerable.”

“I would expect nothing less than a considerable dowry from Dorne,” said Yara cheerfully. “Then again, we could use Lady Sansa’s hand in marriage to ensure that the Knights of the Vale remain in our camp, rather than hiding in their mountains and hoping that death does not come knocking. Her cousin is Lord of the Vale, is he not? How old is he now?”

“Lady Sansa is still young,” mused Varys. “There is every chance that no matter who we wed her to, she should be able to produce a child relatively easily. Why are we only looking at young men?”

“If we are expanding the age range, that does change things,” mused Olenna.

Oberyn shrugged. “If she does not mind that I have daughters older than her, I could marry Lady Sansa myself.”

“You famously have a lover that you are devoted to,” remarked Yara, “And Starks don’t tend to like to share. But perhaps there is an older man from the Vale? Or the Reach?”

“I am not a horse!” snapped Sansa, unable to bear their speculations any more. “To be put to stud by people who would wish to control me! I am not a thing to be traded for gold, or ships, or land! I am a person, and I will decide who I wish to marry!”

There was a sudden silence in the room, and Daenerys looked pointedly at Sansa’s hand. She followed her Queen’s gaze to find that in her temper, she’d seized Tyrion’s hand, and was holding it tight. She gentled her grip and he smiled softly at her, and for a moment she felt like they were the only ones in the room.

“My lady...I can’t offer you much. I no longer have the riches, or the name, that I was able to give you when we first married. Honestly, I do not know what you would even see in me. However, I have been faithful to you since we stood in the Great Sept, and you know that I would treat you with kindness and consideration.”

Absently, Sansa heard Jon muttering “oh, is that what you’re calling it” before Daenerys elbowed him. _Yes, they’ll do well together,_ Sansa thought as her brain searched for anything to think that wasn’t related to the man holding her hand and looking at her with such beseeching eyes.

“I’m no longer Tyrion Lannister,” he continued, “And I would not ask you to become Sansa Hill. Instead, I offer this: for you to remain Sansa Stark, and for me to become Tyrion Stark. My family cared not for me, and yours cared very much for you. Let us be Starks together, in Winterfell. I vow I will never raise a banner against you, my lady. I will protect you, and your home, and all of those you hold dear. I will do everything I can — all my books and cleverness, my talent for knowing things — to keep you safe and let you make your own choices. I will support you in whatever you wish to do. We were married once, and I didn’t appreciate you or protect you then.”

“You did,” she protested softly, and he shook his head. “Of all my suitors, you were the best of them.”

“I was a fool, and I didn’t treat you as I should have. Let us be betrothed, and if we survive this war, let us marry at Winterfell, before the heart tree. Let us make Winterfell your home once again.”

* * *

She’d said yes. Tyrion couldn’t believe she’d said yes. He’d made the offer with his head (and honestly, his cock) still focused on thoughts of last night and on the memories of how they’d come to have a peaceful life together as husband and wife in the hell that was the Red Keep under Joffrey’s rule. It had been a long time since Tyrion had felt that much peace — if ever. His childhood growing up at Casterly Rock hadn’t exactly been warm and loving — between Cersei pinching and pushing him whenever she could, and nothing but coldness from his father — and he’d made himself as tough and impermeable as the Rock itself.

 _Never forget what you are, for the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you._ He’d said that to Jon, years ago now, and he’d believed it. Embraced it. The world was going to see him as a monstrous, lecherous imp? Then by the Seven he’d be the most monstrous, the most lecherous he could be. He’d been a drunk, and a spendthrift, and tumbled more whores than he cared to try and count. Every time his father had looked at him with disgust it had spurred him on to even greater heights of debauchery — to the point that even when his father had entrusted him with overseeing repairs to Casterly Rock he’d built a tunnel so he could sneak whores in, right under his father’s nose. It had pleased him greatly, having orgies in a chamber deep below his father’s office. He’d thumbed his nose at his father and come so hard he’d seen stars all at once. When he’d been sent to King’s Landing he’d simply continued the behaviour, trading the whores and vices of one city for another.

 _Honestly, it’s a wonder I didn’t catch a pox years ago,_ he thought. _Or been robbed outright._

He’d griped and grumbled when he’d been dragged up to Winterfell with Robert and his entourage, and if it hadn’t been for Jaime he’d never have gone. As Tyrion stood at a window and watched Sansa practice riding Viserion, he realised that that trip to Winterfell had in many ways been the beginning of his life — his actual, fulfilling, _true_ life. He’d seen The Wall, the sky cells of the Eyrie, and more battles than he could count. He’d disgraced a gentle, beautiful highborn lady and in return she’d taught him grace, and kindness, and with her he’d found a peacefulness he didn’t know could exist. 

If she never invited him to her bed, he would have been happy to spend the rest of his nights simply sitting beside her in front of a fire, talking and reading and keeping each other company. 

But it seemed she did want to invite him to her bed, and he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her now he knew that.

He pushed away from the window and trotted off to find the Meereenese armourer that had come with Daenerys and her party, as well as to ask the cooks to make the biggest lemoncake they could. On such a long trip, Sansa and Jon would need a way to carry their luggage with them, as well as Lyanna, because leaving the direwolf here without either Stark to try and control her seemed like an exercise in futility. He had an inkling of an idea, a combination of straps, that could be used to secure their luggage and the excitable direwolf — and possibly also Jon and Sansa if Viserion had to make any sudden evasive maneuvers. 

They might be facing the end of the world, but as a wise man had once said, _while I breathe, I hope._

Tyrion was going to do whatever he could to keep his hope alive.

* * *

“You’ll leave tomorrow,” said Daenerys with a nod. “There is no sense in you staying here on Dragonstone when you are needed to summon the armies of Dorne and the Reach as fast as you can.”

Sansa was about to object, but Jon was nodding along. “I agree. I would like to send Tyrion and Davos back to Winterfell once I’m gone, however, to inform the North of the plan. That way, when armies from the South march North, there shouldn’t be any...incidents.”

Daenerys inclined her head in agreement. “Of course. However, I was going to suggest that Tyrion remain here on Dragonstone to supervise the mining of the dragonglass along with Maester Samwell. The two of them seem to know the most about it, and hopefully between the two of them they can work out how to get it out of the rock and into our hands.”

Her Queen smiled at Sansa in such a way that Sansa knew she meant _and I’m going to take the time to get to know your betrothed to make sure he’s actually worthy of you, and if he isn’t, he will never leave this island alive._

Sometimes, it was _annoying_ to have friends who cared that much for you.

“Forgive me, your Grace, your Grace, but I was going to head for King’s Landing,” said Davos. “I’m probably the only one of us who can move through the city without causing notice. Seems to me I could put my Flea Bottom accent to use and find us some blacksmiths, and a few more armourers. Getting the dragonglass out of the earth is all well and good, but how are we going to actually attach it to weapons? There’s a few lads I know in the city, good lads. Talented smiths and handy in a fight if it comes to that. I was going to round them up and bring them back here to start making the weapons.”

“While you’re at it,” said Tyrion, “you might want to check the tunnels under the city. We destroyed the pyromancers’ store of wildfire defending the city from Stannis, but if I know my sister, she’d have immediately ordered them to make more. Removing the wildfire from the city takes a weapon away from my sister, and we know fire can kill the wights. Wildfire might be enough to kill the Night King.”

Davos looked worried, but nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

Varys leaned over to look at the old knight. “I will come with you. Spiders know places no one else can go, and some of the pyromancers have secrets they don’t want others to know.”

“Then who should go North?” asked Jon. “I don’t want to just send a raven.”

Sansa tapped her fingers on the table. “And what is the Queen to do while we are gathering our armies? Just sit here?”

“Would you send our Queen North?” asked Ser Jorah. “On her own?”

Sansa shook her head. “I’d send you, Ser Jorah. You are originally from the North, even if you were exiled many years ago.”

Tyrion snickered, and when Sansa looked at him curiously he explained. “We have Ser Jorah’s...niece? Cousin? At Winterfell. A young woman called Lyanna. I’m not sure she’ll take too kindly to his sudden reappearance.”

“Will she cause trouble?” asked Daenerys.

“No, your Grace,” said Tyrion. “At least, not so much trouble that she’ll withdraw herself and her support back to Bear Island. Ser Jorah might find a frog or two in his bed, that’s all. Her pranks have tended to be mild, and when we last left, Lady Brienne was teaching her how to wield a sword.”

“I didn’t realise you had young women in the North who could bear weapons,” said Oberyn. “I always thought you were too...boring to allow such a thing.”

Ser Davos smiled. “I imagine the man who tried to tell Brienne of Tarth she couldn’t wield a sword wouldn’t have a tongue for much longer.”

“Brienne of Tarth, you say?” asked Varys, a speculative look on his face.

“Oh! I’ve met her,” said Olenna. “Splendid young woman, utterly splendid. She was one of Renly’s sworn swords. Giant of a thing, hardly one for graces and courtesies, but seems to know her way around a blade. She’s the one who brought Jaime Lannister back to King’s Landing in exchange for you and your sister, girl,” she motioned at Sansa. “Of course, that didn’t work out for reasons beyond her control, but she fulfilled what she could of your mother’s orders.”

“Tarth,” repeated Varys, and Sansa wondered what her old mentor was up to. “Your Grace, may I make a suggestion?”

Daenerys nodded, and Varys looked at the painted table before them as he spoke. “The Stormlands are the seat of the Baratheons. When the war broke out, half of the Stormlords declared for Renly, and the other half for Stannis, but Stannis had all of them after Renly’s death, did he not?”

Ser Davos nodded. “Aye, he did. Most of the actual lords refused to travel North with us though, returning to their lands instead. We had their men, but not them. Renly was well liked; Stannis somewhat...less so.”

Sansa smiled sympathetically at Ser Davos. She’d had enough conversations with the man to know how fond he’d been of his King, and how heartbroken he’d been when Stannis had died. _He raised me up and blessed me with his trust,_ he’d told her. _He was pig-headed and stubborn and stiff, and he fell under the sway of That Woman and she led him to do terrible things, but at the end of the day he was my King, just as Daenerys is your Queen._

“What’s happened to that lot since?” asked Yara. “They’d hardly side with the Lannisters, would they?”

Sansa shook her head. “Regardless of her children’s parentage, Cersei did marry Robert, and so technically is a Baratheon, but I can’t see any of them backing her. They were certainly never present at court, at least not that I ever noticed.”

Ser Barristan nodded in agreement. “The Stormlords were never fond of court. Most of them were there out of loyalty to Robert, and to Renly since he was Lord of Storm’s End after Robert took the throne. I haven’t been home since I was a boy, but the Stormlords I knew would never side with Cersei.”

“If they aren’t allied with Cersei,” said Sansa, her mind racing, “that means they could be allied with us. Lord Oberyn, Lady Olenna — your kingdoms border the Stormlands. Would they listen to you?”

Olenna and Oberyn shook their heads, and Varys spoke up again. “The people of the Stormlands have no love for those of the Reach or of Dorne — the marcher lords especially. And they won’t rise up for a Targaryen, or a Stark — especially if he is a Snow. With the Baratheons gone, House Tarth is the strongest house in the Stormlands. The Evenstar was never one to mince words, and though his health is fading, he still commands considerable respect.”

“And his daughter is at Winterfell,” said Jon. “We could send for Brienne, see if she can raise the Stormlands on our behalf.”

Tyrion looked worried. “Brienne left Tarth because she was too martial for it,” he cautioned. “The young lords of the Stormlands didn’t look kindly upon a young lady who could beat them into the ground with one hand tied behind her back.”

Sansa looked thoughtful. “But what if Lady Tarth wasn’t just a young lady who liked swinging a sword? What if she was a trusted advisor of the King in the North, and backed by a Targaryen Queen?”

In the end, it was decided: Ser Jorah and Prince Oberyn would travel North, taking word of what had transpired on Dragonstone to Winterfell and the North (“though Bran probably knows all of this already,” Jon muttered to Sansa later) and asking Brienne of Tarth to come south and join with Daenerys in raising the banners of the Stormlords. 

They were all to meet in two moon’s time — Jon, Daenerys, the armies of Dorne, the Reach, the Stormlands, the Dothraki and the Unsullied — on the plains outside of Bitterbridge.

“Together, we will ride north,” said Daenerys. “A great army, come to defeat the Night King alongside the North.”

Sansa looked at the map before them. “Your Grace, to head north from Bitterbridge we have to pass through the Riverlands. Unless we want to go a considerable way off the Kingsroad, that means crossing the Green Fork of the Trident at the Twins.”

“The Twins?”

“The home of House Frey, your Grace,” said Sansa. “The family that broke guest rights and slaughtered my family at a wedding.”

“Ah,” said the Queen. “They hold the crossing?”

“And Riverrun, your Grace,” said Tyrion. “Riverrun was the home of House Tully — the house of my betrothed’s mother.”

Sansa felt a shiver of joy run down her spine at hearing Tyrion claim her as such.

“The Riverlords have no love for House Frey,” said Olenna. “They never held them in particularly high regard, and after the Red Wedding…”

“My little birds have sung many songs to me of the Riverlords’ dissatisfaction with the current Lords Paramount of the Trident,” said Varys. “The Riverlords are notoriously quarrelsome, but it seems a dislike of the Frey’s unites them all.”

“The enemy of my enemy,” murmured Jon. “House Frey are not particularly known for their abilities at war — their signature move is to arrive after the battles are already won.”

“And to slaughter innocents at a wedding,” added Sansa.

“There is no chance House Frey will join with us?” asked Daenerys.

“None.”

The Queen nodded. “Then we will take Riverrun, and return it to your family. We will then take the Twins, and if we remove House Frey from the face of the world while we do so, then so be it.”

* * *

He needed coffee. All the coffee.

Tyrion was fair staggering the next morning when he and Lysano, the armourer from Essos, finally finished their work and managed, with Daenerys’ help, to put the harness on Viserion. It provided more places for Jon and Sansa to hold onto, as well as places for their luggage and the ability to try and strap Lyanna down.

They hadn’t tested that, but Tyrion had made some guesses based on the direwolf’s proportions and he hoped she’d let herself be tied down. Daenerys had agreed with him that a direwolf without a Stark was not something to be encouraged.

It was bad enough he was going to be left without Sansa; he didn’t need Lyanna to remind him of his loss.

He’d skipped the dinner last night to work on the harness, and now found himself racing through the castle to his rooms. He had some notes to write — a few messages for those in the North, to be sent with Ser Jorah and Prince Oberyn, as well as a letter to send to his niece in Dorne.

He was also of a mind to slip a letter for Tommen to Varys, to see if the Spider could deliver it. _Something along the lines of ‘when the Dragon Queen comes — and she will come — concede. Lions cannot fight dragons, and she is not a cruel woman. Hand the Throne to Daenerys Targaryen and you might live to see peace in your life. Fight, and you will not.’ I’ll leave it unsealed, so Varys can read it and check I’m not sharing secrets. Yes, that’s a good idea._

There was also one other letter he wanted to write. He wasn’t sure it would be delivered, but...there was a chance it would be.

He missed his brother.

* * *

_Huh,_ thought Sansa as she watched Viserion spiral down and land, a collection of straps forming a harness around the dragon. She walked closer, and curtseyed to Viserion, who lowered his head for a scratch. _Huh,_ she thought again. _Oh, I see. I can hold on_ there _, and Jon_ there _, and it looks like we can strap our bags to Viserion’s chest, to help balance out our weight a bit. Who on earth could have done this?_

But even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. There was only one person on this island who was clever enough to think of such a thing, and who had designed their own saddlery before. _Tyrion_ she thought, a wave of fondness washing over her.

“Do you like it?” Sansa turned to see Tyrion standing behind her, concern in his eyes.

Sansa smiled. “I love it — it’s very thoughtful of you.”

“You can even strap yourself to Viserion,” he said, walking up to take her hand. “Daenerys suggested that aspect — apparently it gets cold atop a dragon for a long time, and this way you won’t fall off when your hands get too stiff to hold on. Or if Viserion has to make any sudden changes of direction.”

“Yes, the Queen mentioned the cold,” said Sansa. “She’s leant me some of her coats, as they are designed to close tightly at the front against the cold. Jon is having to swap his furs for some of Prince Oberyn’s wardrobe, as he faces the same problem.”

For a moment, they just stood there holding hands, taking in the view from Dragonstone while behind them the noise of a castle preparing to send most of its residents away rang out.

Tyrion cleared his throat, and Sansa looked down at her betrothed-husband. “I have a letter I’d like to give you, to give to Myrcella,” he said.

“Of course I’ll carry word to her,” she said as she took the letter and tucked it into a pocket without even making to open it. “It’s been years since I last saw her, and I’m looking forward to seeing her again. We were just starting to become close when she left.”

Tyrion nodded, but he looked worried. “I also...I also have a letter for Jaime.”

“Tyrion -”

“I know, I know. You and Jon don’t plan on going to Casterly Rock, but when I last saw him he mentioned writing to Willas Tyrell. If Willas is indeed corresponding with Jaime, could you please ask him to pass on my letter? Here, it is unsealed, so you can see that it doesn’t contain anything that is a betrayal of your Queen.”

Sansa took it, and without opening it tucked it into the same pocket as Myrcella’s letter. “I don’t need to read it to know you would never do something like that, Tyrion.”

The great bell rang out behind them, the signal that it was time to gather in the Throne Room for everyone to make their farewells. Sansa flinched at the sound, then knelt on the damp grass so her face was the same height as Tyrion’s. She brushed his hair off his head, then ran her hand down his face. She did like how his beard looked on him, even if it had left some scratchy marks on her neck the other night. Smiling sadly at him, Sansa moved in and claimed his mouth in a slow, gentle kiss — a kiss very similar to one she had given him once before, many years ago.

This time, when they broke away, Tyrion was smiling sadly himself. “At least this time I know that was a goodbye kiss,” he tried to joke, though there was no merriment in his voice.

Sansa nodded as she stood and they started to walk back to the castle, still holding hands. “It’s only goodbye for now,” she clarified. “This time, you know I’m going. And that I’m coming back.”


	7. The First Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorne, Dragonstone, King’s Landing, the Reach, and Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S05E06 ‘Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken’, S05E10 ‘Mother’s Mercy’, S06E01 ‘The Red Woman’, S07E04 ‘The Spoils of War’, S07E05 ‘Eastwatch’, and S07E07 ‘Beyond the Wall’.
> 
> I was inspired by astolat’s family connections for Brienne in Complications and have borrowed it with love.
> 
> Also, did you know there are actually _nine_ regions of Westeros? Not seven?  
> The North  
> The Iron Islands  
> The Vale  
> The Riverlands  
> The Westerlands  
> The Reach  
> The Crownlands  
> The Stormlands  
> Dorne  
> Bah. There were 7 when Aegon came over and went a-conquering. The Riverlands and the Iron Islands were a joint kingdom, and the Crownlands weren’t a thing (Dragonstone was not counted as part of Westeros at this point), which is why the the Kings (and Queens!) of Westeros are called “of the seven Kingdoms”. The title was never updated to include the Crownlands and Dorne.
> 
> ...yes I have spent too long in the wiki, what of it?
> 
> Warning for references to animal cruelty and sexual assault — skip from “You mean when Joffrey died.” to “I’d gathered as much,” to avoid it.

_The First Stitch_

The Water Gardens were magnificent. From Viserion’s back, Sansa could hardly believe they were a real place, but they _were_ and she was walking through them. Rich and verdant and lush with the orange and red of House Martell liberally scattered about. The shrieks of children playing in the waters filled the air and competed with those of birds.

Sansa warily eyed a peacock strutting past her on the walk. She wasn’t overly sure she was fond of its beak.

“Lady Sansa!” it was all the warning Sansa got before she suddenly had an armful of blonde girl, holding her tight.

When the girl pulled back from Sansa, it was like she was looking into the past. Cersei Lannister was starting at her, looking younger and happier and prettier than Sansa had ever seen her.

Except no, this wasn’t Cersei. This was Myrcella, all grown up now, her long blonde curls shining down the back of her pink gown, and her green eyes sparkling.

“Oh, it is so good to see you again, Aunt!” cried Myrcella, tugging Sansa into a hug again. “It’s been so long, and you’ve changed so much!”

“So have you, Princess,” said Sansa as she extracted herself from Myrcella’s grasp and tucked a strand of hair behind her air. “Dorne suits you, though it is odd to be called your aunt. There aren’t that many years between us.”

“And yet, when it comes to experiences, I fear you have lived many lives to my one. Come, walk with me,” she said, tucking Sansa’s arm into her elbow and gently dragging her long. “Dorne is a wonderful place. I am so very happy here. When Joffrey died, they asked if I wanted the Iron Throne. According to Dornish custom, I was Joffrey’s heir, not Tommen.”

“We have a similar custom in the North,” said Sansa. “But you did not want it?”

“Want it? To return to King’s Landing, and sit upon that ugly chair for the rest of my life, not to mention make an enemy of my mother for daring to take Joffrey’s place? Hardly. I told Doran and Arienne that I wanted no part in that life, that I was happy to stay here with Trystane. He’s good to me - like my uncle was good to you.”

They paused at a balcony overlooking a training yard where Trystane was sparring with Lady Obara. 

“I’m not sure your uncle and I were good for each other, back then, though we are trying to be better now.”

“Nonsense,” said Myrcella. “Tommen’s letters told me all about how you two were growing closer, and how good Uncle was at being first Hand and then Master of Coin. He said you were always kind to him, and his kittens, and he was heartbroken when you disappeared.”

“You mean when Joffrey died.”

Myrcella shook her head. “No. Joffrey was a monster, we both knew that. Tommen and I were so glad when you came to King’s Landing, and he finally stopped torturing us. He cut open one of Tommen’s cats and pulled out her unborn kittens, did you know? Right in front of us. Then pushed Tommen’s face into the dying cat, and tried to shove one of the kittens inside of me. ‘A pussy for a pussy’, he said, before the Hound could make up an excuse to call him away.”

It was all said so calmly that Sansa didn’t know how to respond. “Princess…”

Myrcella smiled sadly. “Tommen and I were so worried when I left, and you were married to Tyrion, that Joffrey would focus on Tommen again. But he seemed to find other games to play.”

“Whores,” croaked Sansa. “He turned his attentions to whores.”

“I’d gathered as much,” nodded Myrcella, sounding sad. “But now he’s gone, and neither Tommen or I ever have to worry about him again. Tommen’s letters were almost happy for a time then — he seems devoted to the Lady Margaery. It seems odd to have a good-sister I’ve never met. Can you tell me of her? You were friends, weren’t you?”

“Happy for a time?” Sansa asked, zeroing in on what she thought was the important part of the sentence. _Neither Tommen nor Margaery have been heard of for some time…_

“He hasn’t written in many moons,” said Myrcella. “He just...stopped. I even sent a letter to Mother, asking her if everything was okay. And to Father. Neither replied.”

“Robert is dead,” said Sansa slowly, unsure if she was hearing the girl correctly.

“I know,” said Myrcella. “I know about Mother, and who my Father is. I think a part of me always knew. And I’m glad — I’m glad it is Jaime who is my father, not Robert. It means I have no claim on the Iron Throne, not truly, and they can never make me leave here.”

“You know,” said Sansa.

Myrcella smiled, a little thing with only one corner of her mouth turned up. _Margaery used to smile like that,_ thought Sansa, missing her friend anew all over again. “Dorne might seem like it’s off the edge of the map, Lady Stark, but we do get some news down here. Including Stannis Baratheon’s proclamation. For a while there, Prince Doran thought of ending our betrothal, but in the end he did not. I’m a noble lady, Aunt, and not a brave one like you who can travel to distant lands and return in triumph on the back of a dragon. Marriage and children is all I am good for, and in Trystane I have a love match. We will stay here in Dorne, and raise our children, and care for our people. Your brother and the Dragon Queen have nothing to fear from Trystane or myself — but please, if you can — spare my brother. Have him sentenced to exile, not execution. He never wanted to be King.”

“You seem certain we are going to win.”

“Against the armies of Dorne, and the North, and dragons? Plus whomever the Dragon Queen has brought with her from her own exile? You’ll win. No one ever won against dragons. Your main challenge will be stopping my mother from destroying everything in King’s Landing out of spite before she can lose to you. I left King’s Landing when I was very young, but I remember enough of my mother to know she will choose death before she admits defeat.”

* * *

“Your Grace,” said Tyrion, approaching the Queen and Missandei as they oversaw the Unsullied training. “There is something I wish for you to see in the caves. Before we start mining the glass.”

“Something, Lord Tyrion?”

“Yes, your Grace. Something.” He bounced on the balls of his feet slightly. He and Sam had been overjoyed when they’d found it — even now, Sam was frantically making all the drawings he could in case it was destroyed.

Curious, the women and some of their guards followed Tyrion down the many steps to the beach, and into the cave that Tyrion and Sam had started their search for Dragonglass in. 

The walls of the cave glittered with dragonglass as they walked through the narrow tunnel.

“There’s so much of it,” breathed Daenerys.

“There is,” nodded Tyrion. “Hopefully it’s all we’re going to need. Much of it is in easy reach — we won’t have to mine too much of it out. There’s a lot of it on the floor, able to be picked up as easy as anything. But that’s not what I’ve brought you to see.” He turned from the main cavern into a small side passage and Daenerys followed him. 

Eventually, they emerged into a small cave, decorated on all sides with carvings. Sam was sitting on the floor, sketch books open around them as he tried to capture all their details.

“The Children of the Forest made these,” said Sam, his eyes alight with academic fervour. “In the Citadel there are books with copies of their carvings. These are the same style.”

“When were these made?” asked Daenerys.

“A very long time ago,” said Sam. “The last records of the Children of the Forest this far south was some two thousand years before your ancestors settled Dragonstone — and that itself was over a hundred years before Aegon began his conquest.”

“They were right here,” said Daenerys. “Before there were Targaryens, or Starks, or Lannisters. Maybe even before there were men.”

“No,” said Tyrion, shaking his head and leading Daenerys to another wall. “They were here together, the children and the First Men.”

“Doing what? Fighting each other?”

“Fighting together against their common enemy — the dead.” The carvings on the walls had given him the heebie-jeebies when he’d first seen them — they captured the spirit of the White Walkers all too well from what he remembered seeing at Hardhome. “Despite their differences, despite their suspicions, they fought together to dispel the dead.”

“And we shall do the same.”

* * *

Winterfell was...cold. He’d been here before, many years ago, when he’d been a younger man. A less scared man. Before Lynesse, before he’d fled. He’d been a gangly young thing then, much like the boy sitting in the wheeled chair beside him.

Down in the training yard, Oberyn was wheeling and spinning around the tall woman, his spear flashing in the weak afternoon sunlight. Oberyn was so much shorter than the woman that his spear didn’t give him as much of an advantage in reach than it normally would have, and Brienne of Tarth was giving as good as she got.

Oberyn won the first bout, and after a brief break for water, they resumed. Brienne won the second; Oberyn the third. Brienne looked fit to win the fourth when finally the waning afternoon light faded too much for them to continue fighting, and Oberyn called a halt to the proceedings, clapping Brienne on the shoulder with a laugh as they left the training yards.

“Isn’t she splendid?” rumbled a voice from behind him. Jorah turned and found his eyes level with a broad chest — he looked up, and up, and eventually locked eyes with a large ginger wildling man. “I want to make babies with her. Great big monsters that’ll conquer the world.”

Beside him, Bran snorted — the most human sound Jorah had heard him make yet in the days since they’d arrived. “How’s that going, Giantsbane?”

“Oh, well enough,” smiled the wildling. “She’s stopped looking at me like she wants to eat my liver all of the time, now. Just...most of the time. It’s progress, boy.”

“You’re mad,” said Bran. “How did you survive this long again?”

Tormund shrugged. “I’m good at killing people.” He looked at Jorah. “Your cousin wants to see you. I promised you’d be nice. Are you going to make a liar of me, kneeler?”

Jorah blinked. He’d seen his cousin when they’d arrived, but only once. Upon hearing his name, a young girl who looked like Dacey, but much, much smaller, had glared at him and fled. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since.

He nodded, and the tall wildling led him through the corridors of Winterfell to a cheerful sitting room, with a fluffy white dog curled up by the fire. His cousin was waiting there, sitting in a hard-looking chair and looking every inch a ruling lady, for all that she was barely ten-and-two by his guess. She hadn’t even been born when he’d left, and he wondered how, of all his cousins, she was the only one left.

The wildling shut the door behind them and leaned on it. Jorah figured he wasn’t getting out of that room alive if he displeased the girl.

“You’re my uncle,” she said. “I am Lyanna Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.”

“You are, my lady,” he said, taken aback at how much she sounded like _home_. He didn’t even realise that there was an accent of Bear Island, but he heard it now.

“Do you come to reclaim your title?”

Looking at her, Jorah made a decision. Daenerys had offered Bear Island back to him, an age ago now, but in truth he’d thrown it away years ago through his own actions. _Do I really have the right to demand it back?_ he wondered.

“How many fighting men does Bear Island field these days?” he asked rather than answering her question.

“Sixty-two,” she said, “and several fighting women.”

“How are the crofters? Particularly those at Mummer’s Cove?”

“When I left Bear Island, they were well. We replaced the dam a year past, and it is holding so far. We lost several houses at High Tooth in landslides however, and that community is shifting inland as a response.”

He nodded, racking his brain to try and remember the minutiae of running Bear Island. “The cod stocks?”

“Well and good. I lifted the allowance, seeing as how we are coming into winter, with the provision that one of every three extra fish taken must be salted and sent to Mormont Keep as stores for the winter ahead. Maester Yarrow has been travelling the Island, helping to ensure that local stores of medicines and supplies are as ready as they can be for the winter to come.”

“Have you expanded the farmland?”

Lyanna nodded as the fire popped in the background. “We cleared sufficient land around High Tooth that they can rebuild their houses there and farm more crops. We’ve had luck with parsnips especially in the new fields outside Mortown, and barley has been good these past few years. We’ve had enough to feed our people and trade for supplies. The debt you left the Island with is cleared now.”

Jorah shrugged. “Then you’ve done a better job than I ever did, cousin. I do not seek to take Bear Island from you. It is yours, and I bow to your command of it. If you think I have advice to give I will give it, but I yield to you as the Lady of Bear Island.”

Her formal mien dropped, and a smile crept through her stern visage. “Really? You mean it?”

He nodded, and crossed to where she was sitting, taking a knee in front of her and laying down his sword. “I cannot swear myself to you, as I am already sworn to Queen Daenerys, and I’ve finally learned there is value in keeping vows. But I promise you this, my lady. Bear Island is yours, now and forever. I will shield your back, and keep your council, and give whatever aid I can. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New, and on the name of our House.”

Lyanna nodded, and flung herself into his arms. The dog that had been curled up in front of the fire unfolded, then unfolded some more, until Jorah realised that it wasn’t a dog at all but a humongous dire wolf that came padding over to them and flopped down at their side, it’s tongue hanging out.

After a few moments of clutching her tight, a large hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“This is as lovely as baby foxes playing in the snow,” drawled the wildling, “but now you’ve shown that you aren’t a complete cunt, it’s time for us to have words.”

* * *

_The Second Stitch_

They didn’t even have to negotiate at Highgarden. Sansa had been shocked to see the state of Mace Tyrell — the happy, plump lord she’d seen back in King’s Landing was but a shadow of his former self, and looked and moved like he was older than his own mother.

Mace had greeted them, but then his eldest son had skilfully directed his father’s attention to his flowers, and the Lord of Highgarden had wandered away.

Willas looked after his father with a sad look on his face. “He hasn’t been the same since our mother died. She went to King’s Landing for Lord Tywin’s funeral, and never made it back. Her party was set upon by bandits, and they sent pieces of her to us for ransom. Our coffers were a bit bare after paying for both of Margaery’s weddings, as while the Reach is rich in food and wine, we lack hard coin sometimes. We were too slow to raise the ransom, and our mother died.”

“Have you heard from Margaery lately? Or Loras?”

“None of us have heard from Margaery in a long time, Lady Sansa. We assume she is still alive, as the death of a Queen is something that not even Cersei Lannister could hide, but there’s been no word. We’ve tried spies, and bribes, and yet...nothing. King’s Landing is barred to us, and your Queen is the best bet we have of getting our rose back. We just want our sister back — no more, and no less.”

“And Loras?” she asked.

“He took orders and joined the septons,” sighed Willas. “I believe there was some to-do in King’s Landing — the rumours surrounding Margaery and Loras and Renly never quite went away, from what I could tell — and he took orders to save Margaery’s reputation. But I think he’s happy there, or as happy as he can be. The light went out of him after Renly died. Religion is often a comfort in times of grief.”

“You are being surprisingly honest with me, Lord Willas,” said Sansa as they watched Garlan and Jon spar in the training grounds. The young knight of the Reach was flashy and clearly skilled, but Jon was holding his own. 

He shrugged. “We are allies, no? It is important to be honest with allies. My sister thought highly of you, as does my grandmother. I have my orders, and the Reach will rise alongside the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. I have called out the banners, and with Garlan at the head of the army they shall ride forth within the month. We’ll raise the Maesters from the Citadel also — you’ll need as many as you can after such a large battle.”

“Your brother and not yourself?”

Willas shook his head. “I’m not a commander, my lady, nor much of a fighter these days. I have my books, and my horses, and my hawks. And I shall have Garlan’s heir with me, besides. My good-sister was kind enough to give birth to twin boys — one heir for Highgarden, and one for Brightwater. She’ll be sorry she missed you — I believe Lady Leonette was one of your companions in King’s Landing?”

“She was,” Sansa remembered. “She would come with your sister and I to dispense alms among the poor.”

“She is at Brightwater now, recovering from the birth, but when I write to her next I shall pass on your regards.”

“Please, do,” smiled Sansa, pleased to hear this news about one of her old friends. “If I may, could I write a letter for you to include also? She was close to Lady Merry, and I’m sure she’d want to know of our adventures in Essos.”

“Of course,” said Willas, before his kind expression shuttered. “But speaking of letters...my lady, from what you and King Jon have told me, you and Queen Daenerys have the armies of the North, of Dorne, of the Reach, half of the Ironborn fleet, and the Knights of the Vale under your banner, with plans to approach the Stormlords. Six of the Kingdoms. It seems to me there are two more you should approach.”

“The Crownlands would never rise for us.”

“No, my lady — but the Westerlands might. Have you thought of approaching your good brother?”

Sansa stared at Willas in shock. “Ser Jaime? Surely he is in King’s Landing with his sister.”

Willas shook his head. “We’ve been corresponding, since he returned to take up the mantle of Warden of the West. He’s been hard at work, helping the Westerlands rebuild. Joffrey’s wars drew heavily on the Westerlands and their men, and Tywin was more focused on the game of thrones than caring for his people. Lord Jaime didn’t even travel to King’s Landing for his father’s funeral — something I am sure his sister will never forgive him for.”

* * *

“They called me Brienne the Beauty,” said Brienne as she stared into her goblet. “It wasn’t a compliment.”

Jorah could see why. The lass was hardly fair of face. Her hair looked like straw and her nose had clearly been broken more than once. Her eyes were passing lovely, but the rest of her face wasn’t. Yet the big wildling gazed at her in open adoration, Oberyn respected her fighting ability, and his little cousin was also clearly fond of her. The others in the room were all silent as she spoke, from the girl who looked strongly like Sansa to the other wildlings and lords in the room — and Bran Stark in his chair.

“You’re not the same girl you were when you left,” said Bran, turning his head to look at her directly. 

“I don’t know how that will help,” she said. “They didn’t like me, or listen to me when I was but a girl playing at sword fighting. Now that I’ve been in the field all these years? Now that I’ve killed men, and gotten even more bumps and bruises for my troubles? What makes you think they’ll listen to me now about the dead rising, let alone follow me into battle?”

“You won’t be alone,” said Oberyn. “Queen Daenerys is waiting for you. She wants you to lead the Stormlords, as the heir to Tarth and the next Evenstar.”

“I’m no commander,” said Brienne.

“No, but you’re the deadliest thing I’ve ever seen on two legs, that preening princling included,” said Tormund, nodding his head at Oberyn. “If there’s a single fighter down amongst those kneelers who can give you a challenge, I’ll eat my hat.”

“You don’t have a hat.”

“I’ll _buy_ a hat, just to eat it,” said the big wilding, nudging her with his shoulder, his blue eyes large with encouragement. 

“My lady,” said Jorah, “we need you. The realm needs you.”

Brienne’s beautiful eyes locked onto his, and then just as quickly moved away. 

“There’s no one else in the Stormlands we can trust,” he continued. “You were with Renly, it’s well known. The Stormlords that are left were for Renly as well. You can rally them, in his memory. If not in his memory, then appeal to their pride. The Dornishmen and the Reachmen are joining this fight — would the Stormlords want to be seen as craven compared to snakes and flowers?”

“We’ll be with you, at least part of the way,” said the girl who looked like Sansa. “Pod and I have been thinking — you’d be travelling by boat, correct? Would you be able to drop us off at Gulltown on your way?”

“Gulltown? Why are you heading for the Eyrie? It’ll be closed for the winter by now, and besides, we have the Knights of the Vale. Who else is left there?”

“The Hill Tribes,” said the girl.

One of the older men in the room snorted his wine out of his nose. “The Hill Tribes? That bunch of savage, murderous vermin?”

The girl looked at him, calmly and evenly. “We have wildlings on our side, Lord Royce. If what Ser Jorah and Prince Oberyn say is true, we also have Dothraki. I’m sure you would consider both groups to be savage and murderous. Why are the Hill Tribes any different? They deserve the right to fight for the living, just as any of us do. Pod and I know them, from when they fought for Lord Tyrion. We can treat with them. Offer them a place in this fight, and through that, a place in the Kingdom afterwards.”

“Aly, are you sure?” asked Brienne. “I said I’d protect you, but you don’t have to stay here without me. You can return to Queensgate if you don’t want to stay in Winterfell.”

The girl — Aly — shook her head. _She doesn’t just have the look of Sansa, but she’s as stubborn as well,_ thought Jorah.

“Thank you, Lady Brienne, but Pod and I have made our decision.” A young lad, his features as plain as his boiled leather armour, quietly walked up and took her hand, nodding at the rest of the room. 

Brienne sighed. “Very well. Sers, how soon can you prepare your ship to return to the South?”

“It will take them three days,” said Bran Stark. “Which is fortunate, because that’s how long it will take Sinjon to make your new shield.”

“My shield?”

The boy nodded, his eyes far away. “It is time to remind the Stormlords who you are. Your height comes from your grandmother’s father, did you know? Long before he donned the white cloak he had an affair with Rhaelle Targaryen. As she was a bastard, their daughter — your grandmother — was quietly sent off to grow up in Tarth and marry the third son of a loyal house. His older brothers died, however, and thus your grandfather Galladon became the Lord of Tarth. Your grandmother never knew the truth of her birth,” he said, his eyes coming back into focus. “All she had of her father was an old, battered shield — the elm and the shooting star, the same arms you have used in the past. It was a pity he died at Summerhall, as he would have been very proud of you. So very proud.”

* * *

King’s Landing stunk even worse than he remembered. The gold cloaks didn’t glance at him even once, which was rather the point, Ser Davos thought. There was a reason he and Varys had been the ones to volunteer to come back here.

He strolled the Street of Steel, seeing which smiths were producing what. A lot of finery, and not many swords it seemed. Eventually, he came to a shop that seemed rather quieter than the others, with just a single young man working there.

“Thought you might still be rowing,” he said, and the young man turned with a laugh. “I looked in shops, taverns, brothels...should have known to come straight here.”

“Aren’t you worried about the gold cloaks?” asked Gendry, putting the polishing cloth down on his bench and striding towards Davos, who seized the man in a hug and clapped him firmly on his back. 

“An old man like me? Why should they bother?”

“Because where you go, trouble comes calling, Ser.”

“Oh, aye, but that’s hardly my fault,” said Davos. “It was just our poor luck to be born into interesting times.”

Gendry led him to a table at the back of the shop, and produced a simple meal of bread, cheese and ale.

The table wobbled as Davos sat at it, and he raised an eyebrow at Gendry. 

“I’m a smith, not a carpenter,” grumbled the younger man as he pushed the food closer to Davos and poured ale for them both.

“Anybody give you any trouble?”

“No,” said Gendry, gulping down a mouthful of ale. “Never looked at me twice. Now here I am, arming Lannister soldiers. Or, well, the Golden Company, or whoever the Queen has persuaded to her side. There’s hardly a Westerman amongst them, unless I miss my bet. But you were right — safest place for me was right under the queen’s nose.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Davos. “Safety is never a permanent state of affairs. Bad things are coming.”

“You came to get me. You want me to come with you.”

“You, and any young armourer and smith friends you have. And any stonemasons you can scrounge up. It’s a dangerous thing I’m aski-”

“I’m ready,” said Gendry, shoving the last of his food into his mouth and standing up in a hurry. “Let’s go.”

“You should know what you’re heading into.”

“What do you think I’ve been thinking about, with every swing of the hammer? It sure as shit wasn’t about how happy I am, making weapons for the woman who killed my father. For the woman who tried to kill me. I’ve been getting ready. I never knew what for, but I’ve always known I’d know it when it comes. And today, my friend, it looks a hell of a lot like you.”

Davos smiled, briefly. “You might want to bring one of those swords.”

“I don’t know much about swinging swords,” said Gendry. “But this? This I know.” 

He pulled a large hammer down from the wall, the Baratheon stag etched upon it. _He really is his father’s son,_ thought Davos, as he followed Gendry out of the smithy and into the crowded street. As they walked, he noticed many of the young men in the street look up at Gendry, give imperceptible nods, then return to their tasks.

“You wanted other young men? Armourers? Smiths? Give us two days to spread the word and you’ll have them. Stonemasons a day after that,” said the boy quietly as they navigated down the street, unremarked upon by the gold cloaks patrolling King’s Landing.

* * *

Oberyn couldn’t sleep. He was exhausted, and cold, and no matter who he sparred with, he could never get warm. They were due to leave the next day and although he had been happy to come here on the order of his Queen, he would be even more glad to leave.

He’d make sure he had warmer clothes before he came North again. This was no place for someone such as him.

He bundled himself up as warm as possible, and eased open his door. He’d visit the glass gardens. They were nowhere near as green as the Water Gardens, though they were at least warm.

Except on his way there, he noticed that some of the torches leading towards the godswood had been lit, which he thought was strange. For all he didn’t understand the Northmen’s passion for praying to trees, he at least knew they generally only worshipped during the day. Winterfell and it’s residents tended to keep daylight hours, which Oberyn didn’t understand. Life was more fun after dark, but the dour Northmen disliked using candles as much as the Dornish liked using them it seemed.

The first thing he was going to do upon being reunited with Ellaria was make sure there was a hundred candles lit all night in his rooms, as he pleasured his paramour over and over and over again. She said she was past the age of child-bearing, but Oberyn still wondered if she would quicken once again. The only thing he’d ever experienced that was better than sex with Ellaria was sex with Ellaria when she was pregnant. She got very...creative when she was swollen with his child.

He let those pleasant memories warm him as he followed the torches through the godswood, curious about what was happening, until the sound of voices made him pause. Several torches around the heart tree had been lit, and he made sure he was standing outside their pool of light. He craned his head and saw the girl who looked like Sansa and a boy kneeling in the snow before the tree.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” the boy asked.

“Alyane Stone of House Borrell comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, she comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Podrick of House Payne, a man grown and true. He offers himself to you in sight of the Gods. Will you take this man?”

She nodded. “I take this man.”

They reached towards each other, and tangled their fingers together.

“Before the Old Gods, this I vow,” they said together. “I am yours, and you are mine. I will take no other, and be faithful to you for the rest of my days.”

With that their lips met in a gentle kiss, and Oberyn took that moment to steal away. Whatever perversions he may be proud of having, he knew that some things were private and did not need a witness. He would congratulate them on the morrow.

* * *

_The Third Stitch_

Casterly Rock was big and imposing and perched high above the sea, as if it were sneering at everything around it. Sansa could see why no one had ever taken the castle, it’s natural defences being considerable, and it was with her heart in her throat that she guided Viserion down, a white flag of parley strapped firmly to Viserion’s chest, with Stark, Targaryen, Martell, Tyrell, Arryn and Greyjoy banners ringing it. 

They hadn’t sent a raven ahead, because Viserion could fly further and faster than any raven. They just had to trust that Willas hadn’t steered them wrong, and that Jaime would be curious enough to treat with them.

Viserion landed with a thump, and although Lyanna whined to be let down, they didn’t unbuckle themselves. They had to be ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

The great gates opened, and a single horseman rode forth, his lance at the ready and dressed in full plate armour, a helm in the shape of a roaring lion covering his head. His mount was clearly terrified, showing the white of its eyes and sweating madly, yet on it came at a trot.

“Parley! We have come to parley!” yelled Sansa, hoping the man could hear her. Pounding feet rang out, and as the knight came closer she saw a battalion of archers taking to the castle walls. They were armed with longbows — powerful enough to punch through armour, Sansa knew, yet not powerful enough to stop Viserion. She hoped. Enough to hurt her and Jon though, and she yelled again.

“Peace! We come in peace, damn you! We bring messages to House Lannister from those who would ally with her, and seek her aid in the wars to come!”

The knight raised his lance, and jogged closer on his horse. The poor beast was clearly scared out of its wits, and when Viserion swung his head around to peer at the horse the rider was forced to drop his lance as the panicking horse started to spin in tight circles, fighting against the hold it’s rider had on it.

Eventually, the horse had enough and bucked its rider clear off, leaving the knight in a heap and giving him a kick for good measure before racing back to the safety of the castle.

Sansa scrambled down from Viserion to see if the knight was hurt. If she could offer aid to his wounded knight, maybe Jaime would let them say their piece, and not shoot them full of arrows.

She raced across the ground to the fallen knight, and managed to shove him over so he was lying on his back. She fumbled at the straps and pulled his helm off, and bright green eyes blinked at her, damp golden hair stuck to the knight’s forehead.

She’d seen eyes like that before. Very recently, in fact.

“Hello, good-sister,” said the Kingslayer, before he passed out at her feet.


	8. Secrets and Bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I may not be the smartest Lannister, but I’m still a Lannister. Thinking is an unfortunate hobby of ours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S0601 ‘The Red Woman’, S02E07 ‘A Man Without Honour’, S08E01 ‘Winterfell’, S08E02 ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ (so much Brienne/Jaime!) and like every Brienne/Jaime fic I’ve read over the last 3 months or so. In particular I’ve taken a key idea in this chapter from janie_tangerine’s ‘more like the man you were meant to be’, because I thought the idea was bloody brilliant (also brilliant: that fic. Go read it).

“How’s your head?” asked Sansa as she and Lyanna came across Jaime, standing on a parapet overlooking where Jon was seeing to Viserion outside Casterly Rock’s gates. She’d expected rage to overtake her — this was the man who had pushed Bran from a tower, after all. Who’d attacked her father in the street and tried to destroy her house and her family. The man who had been Cersei’s lover.

The man who’d murdered her Queen’s father.

But he was also the brother that Tyrion spoke of with such fondness. The man that both Oberyn and Willas had spoken so highly of. So for their sake — for _Tyrion’s_ sake — she would treat with him.

She could always stab him later. He was without a sword hand, after all.

Jaime lifted the cold pack from his head, revealing a large egg-shaped bruise. “Sore.”

Sansa settled into place beside him and looked over the wound with a practised eye as Lyanna slumped at her feet. “You’ll live.”

“Oh, so you’re a Maester now?” he snarked, and Sansa just smiled. She’d never really spoken with Ser Jaime before, and it seemed he had a similar sense of humour to his younger brother.

“No, but I helped nurse the wounded after the Battle of Blackwater, seeing as how I could sew with a steady hand. Then I rode the length of Essos with the Dothraki — I saw my share of battles and the aftermath with them.”

“Yes, I saw the bells. Does Tyrion know what they meant?”

This time, it was Sansa’s turn to smirk. “He does.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jaime after a long silence. “For your brother. The little one. He didn’t fall from that tower — I pushed him.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. “I know.”

“You know?”

“He’s still alive. He told Jon that he knew you’d pushed him, and that he forgave you. Apparently in losing his legs he gained wings, or somesuch,” she shrugged. “I haven’t actually seen him in years, but Jon assures me he is well. And very annoying, as younger brothers should be.”

Jaime sagged in visible relief. “Thank the gods. But I won’t apologise for the rest of it.”

“The rest of it?”

“We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my house and my family.”

“And it was my family that paid the price,” snapped Sansa.

They glared at each other, until finally Jaime shrugged. “The things we do for love.”

Warily, they settled back on the ramparts, once again staring out at Jon and Viserion.

“There were some things I regret, of those years, but many I don’t,” he said. “It’s too...easy, to just say that because of one thing, everything was right or everything was wrong. Life is more difficult than that.”

Sansa sighed. He was right, but she didn’t want to admit it. _When I was a foolish little girl, I thought everything was right, or everything was wrong. The Lannisters attacked my family, so they must be wrong. Aerys killed my family, so the Targaryens must be evil. Yet now I serve a Targaryen Queen, and a Lannister has proved himself to be the kindest, noblest man I have ever known._

“I thought you had come with the dragon to take your revenge,” he continued. “For your brother, or your father, or everything else.”

“No, we’ve come with the dragon because it’s a faster and safer way of carrying messages.” Sansa turned and faced Jaime full in the face. “And the matter is urgent. We’re raising an army.”

“To overthrow my sister?”

“No. To overthrow the dead. Did you not read any of the letters I handed your Maester?”

Jaime flapped his hand at her. “He summarised them for me. So the legends are true — the dead have risen.”

“They have,” nodded Sansa. “We have the armies of Dorne, of the Reach, of the North, and of the Vale. Will we have the armies of the West?”

“It sounds like you have enough men,” shrugged Jaime. “Why should I hand over the army my father built to you?”

“Because unless we all stand together, we’ll all die. The dead don’t care about thrones, or gold. They just want to add us to their ranks.”

They were silent for a time, and then Sansa spoke up. “Ser Arthur Dayne knighted you, didn’t he my lord?”

“He did, my lady.”

“And when he did, what did you swear?”

He stiffened, and glared at Sansa. “You’re very like your mother, did you know that?”

Sansa had not expected the conversation to take that turn. “What?”

“I had a very similar conversation with your mother, years ago, when she held me captive.”

“I’m not holding you captive.”

“You have a dragon outside my gates, and a direwolf at your feet. It feels much the same.” Jaime sighed, and hung his head. “I’ll tell you much the same I told her — there are so many vows. As a knight, they make you swear and swear. Defend the king, obey your father, protect the innocent...but what if it is the king who wishes to hurt the innocent? What then? No matter what you do, you forsake one or the other of the damn things.”

“I always wondered about that,” said Sansa. “Aerys was mad — so much so that that’s how he’s referred to. Mad King Aerys, who burned my grandfather and killed my uncle.”

“I was there. Aerys didn’t trust my father — rightly so, it turned out — and I was kept at his side. It was awful. Have you ever smelled burning flesh? Heard the screams of the dying as they are cooked alive in their armour?”

“I was at the Battle of Blackwater, my lord. Maegor’s Holdfast didn’t protect us from everything.”

“No, I don’t imagine it did.”

“I’ve spent some time thinking about what you did,” said Sansa. “The longer I spent in King’s Landing, the more I learned about the events of that night. If anything, my father should have thanked you.”

Jaime’s head whipped around so fast Sansa heard his neck crack. “You what?”

“King Aerys killed two of our family. You killed him in return. He was mad, and you did the kingdom a favour when you removed him from the throne. Yet in return, your name and honour was dragged through the mud. I am sorry for the role my family played in that, and as the Lady of Winterfell, I offer you my thanks for the service you provided for the Starks.”

She curtseyed low, and could feel Jaime’s stare boring into her. When he didn’t move or say anything, Sansa rose from her curtsey and rolled her eyes. “What?”

“You just...what?”

“Lord Jaime, you killed the man who killed my grandfather and uncle,” she repeated. “Thank you for that.”

“But...your father never thanked me. Never asked what had happened, just assumed…”

“Well, you were sitting on the Iron Throne with blood still dripping from your sword, weren’t you? A bit showy, my lord. My father never approved of such things.”

“A bit showy?” he gasped.

“Though you were only ten-and-seven though, weren’t you? Everyone’s a bit of a dick at that point.” He gaped, and Sansa’s smile fell from her face. “Ten-and-seven, and left to guard the King, and three other members of the royal family, all on your own. You were ill-used, Lord Jaime. The years since haven’t been kind to you, and I fear there is no way to restore your honour in the eyes of many in the Kingdom, but to me — you are a good man, Jaime Lannister. I’m not sure why you chose then to strike -”

“Wildfire,” rasped Jaime. “The King was fascinated with wildfire. He had stores of it hidden around the city, ready to blow. When he heard my father was at the gates, he gave the order for it to be fired. I killed the pyromancers before they could carry out the order, and then killed the one who gave it.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I swore to keep my king’s secrets. I’d already broken at least one oath by killing him — breaking any more oaths that same day seemed like showing off.”

Jaime was silent for a long time, and Sansa was about to withdraw to give him space, when suddenly he spoke again.

“I didn’t see it last time, when I visited Winterfell. I didn’t really pay much attention to the boy — why on earth would I care about Ned Stark’s bastard? I had other things on my mind at the time.”

Sansa paused, and looked over to Jaime, who was staring at Jon below them.

“But then, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, it was my responsibility to update the White Book. I hadn’t actually read it before then, and it was interesting. Ser Barristan had all the entries up to date — including those of Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, and Lord Commander Hightower. They’d left King’s Landing with Rhaegar, and I had thought they’d perished at the Trident or in some earlier battle. But they hadn’t. They’d died in Dorne, at a tower in the middle of nowhere, guarding your aunt before they were cut down by your father. And that got me thinking.”

“Thinking?” Sansa couldn’t help but snort, and Jaime glared at her. 

“I may not be the smartest Lannister, but I’m still a Lannister. Thinking is a hobby of ours. I started thinking about what on earth three of my brothers were doing guarding a tower in Dorne, when Aerys was in King’s Landing, as was Princess Elia and her children. Queen Rhaella and her second son were on Dragonstone, and Rhaegar was in the crownlands, leading an army.”

He shrugged. “My brothers could have been with any of them, but they weren’t. They were in Dorne, far away from any member of the Royal Family, guarding Lyanna Stark from her brother. It didn’t make sense to me — any less than it made sense that your father, the oh-so-honourable Ned Stark, would return from a war with a bastard babe. He was hardly one to tup a camp follower, let alone keep track of said camp follower and take the babe home.”

Sansa nodded slowly. It had never really made sense to her, either.

“The more I thought about it, the more I realised that the timing made no sense,” continued Jaime. “Your parents didn’t marry until after the Battle of the Bells, and your brother wasn’t born until later in the year — almost exactly nine months after, if I’m remembering the dates right. But your father wasn’t in the field before the Battle of the Bells — it took too long to gather his men and march them south. He missed the earlier battles. Yet when the Rebellion was over, when Ned Stark rode north just in time to arrive for your brother’s birth, he was carrying his infant ‘son’ with him. The only way your father could have had an infant with him at that stage was for the child to have been born before the end of the Rebellion — yet Ned Stark was barely in the field for nine months.”

Sansa’s mind was spinning. “You mean...Jon isn’t my brother?”

“I suspect, Lady Sansa, that he is your cousin. It doesn’t make sense for him to be Ned’s son — but it does make sense for him to be Ned’s nephew.”

“Lyanna’s son?”

“Lyanna, and Rhaegar’s.”

Sansa’s world spun, as things that had never quite made sense clicked into place about her family. And then a sudden, horrible thought struck her — _If Jon is Rhaegar’s son, he’s not only King in the North but also a claimant for the Iron Throne. Oh, gods, if he’s Rhaegar’s son, that would make him Daenerys’...nephew? Oh, gods. Oh, this is not good. Not good at all._

“Why has no one figured this out before?”

Jaime shrugged. “No one else had the pieces of the puzzle, I guess, or the time to mull it over. In the aftermath of Robert’s Rebellion, there were other things to think about, and then the babe was in the North — out of sight, out of mind. Which was probably Ned’s plan. Robert loathed the Targaryens — did you know he ordered the death of your Dragon Queen? At least once that I knew of, if not more. Your father was torn between his oaths — his oath of fealty and loyalty to Robert, but the child was of his blood, even if he wasn’t his son. It would have taken a much harder man than Ned Stark to hand over an infant member of his family to be sentenced to death. Instead, he hid him, and lied for years. Maybe, in the end, your father and I weren’t so different after all. When our oaths clashed, we both had to choose which to keep, and which to break.”

 _And you were vilified for your choice,_ thought Sansa, _while my father barely had any repercussions for his. Everyone just seemed to...ignore it. No wonder there was bad blood between Jaime and my father._

They stood at the parapet, watching as Jon scratched Viserion on his neck, the dragon rumbling with obvious pleasure.

“It helps, of course, that I knew Rhaegar well. I wasn’t sure until I saw your brother now, as an adult rather than as a sulky teen at the edges of things. Your Jon Snow may have the Stark colouring, but the shape of those eyes? That’s Rhaegar, through and through. I know those eyes, Lady Sansa. I still see them in my nightmares.”

* * *

The boy’s resemblance to Robert was uncanny. 

Even Olenna had seemed taken aback when they’d all gathered for dinner. He and Oberyn (who had returned from the North the day before with Lady Brienne in tow) had been telling each other the most ribald stories they could, while Lady Olenna was egging both of them on for her own amusement.

(Privately, Tyrion had plans to get the both of them as drunk as possible one day. He was sure the results would be hilarious. Maybe with Tormund as well. Although the thought of introducing Lady Olenna to Lyanna Mormont made him quail, the idea of Lady Olenna talking with Tormund? He didn’t want to miss a moment of that.)

The conversation in their corner of the table had come to a halt when they’d seen the young smith stride in, however. It had been years since they’d seen Robert as he’d become — old, tired and drunk, his hair thinning and face permanently red with his muscles turned to fat — and it was like seeing the Demon of the Trident come anew.

Brienne, sitting on Olenna’s other side, had dropped her spoon in her bowl upon sighting the boy, and the resulting splash made Daenerys look down the table at them, a question clear in her face.

“Come now, Lady Tarth, surely our japes aren’t that shocking!” said Tyrion, trying very hard to make the cheer in his voice sound less false. “This cannot be the first time you’ve heard of a man wearing skirts!”

Fortunately for him, Oberyn picked up the thread of the lie, and Brienne turned her attention from the boy towards them. “I will say, although it was not my colour, the flare of the dress really did call attention to my shapely waist. It was most flattering, even if the situation was awkward to explain to my brother later. Just imagine it — there I was, wearing mother’s third best dress, my foot stuck in the ladder, Elia’s dog was having a seizure and I still had half a pie left!”

He and Tyrion roared with laughter, Olenna cackling along, while Brienne mostly looked confused at this point. Seeing it was just two of her allies telling (presumably) tall tales, Daenerys turned away from them to continue her conversation with Missandei, and Tyrion leaned forward to speak across Olenna to Brienne.

“We’ll talk later, Lady Tarth.”

“What?”

“Given his age, he’s one of Robert’s — Stannis never seemed the type, and well, Renly…” Tyrion shrugged, trusting she’d understand what he wasn’t saying. “We’ll have to move with care — Daenerys may not appreciate having a Baratheon bastard around, not when she’s making a claim to the Iron Throne.”

“We might want to involve Ser Barristan in that conversation as well,” remarked Olenna. “He’s the other person here who would spot the resemblance so fast. I’m sure Varys already knows, but the Spider keeps secrets better than anyone else.”

Tyrion nodded, and deliberately turned the conversation to who Brienne was planning to approach first of the Stormlords. _Seven Hells, this could get...messy,_ he thought. _Fuck. One of Robert’s bastards finally came to light, and it’s now, after we have a serious Targaryen contender for the Throne. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

* * *

The next morning, Sansa’s head was still spinning from the information Jaime had given her. She hadn’t slept a wink, her thoughts too loud for sleep. She’d dodged Jon — making an excuse about a headache to skip dining with him — and only hoped that Jaime had kept his promise not to tell Jon on his own.

Sitting in the room she’d been given (a room she strongly suspected to have been Tyrion’s, given the childish drawing of a dragon she’d found tacked to the wall and the piles of books everywhere) wasn’t helping, so she dressed and made her way to the Sept.

It was a beautiful building, set apart from the majority of the castle and overlooking the sea. Inside, the scents of sea spray and incense mingled, and Sansa took a few deep breaths to calm herself. She light a taper, and moved around the Sept, lighting the votive candles beneath each alter and saying a prayer as she went. She began with the Father, asking for the wisdom to know what to do in this situation, before moving to the Mother, where she asked for mercy for not telling her brother — her cousin? — immediately, and to help keep him safe. She prayed to the Warrior for courage, and for Jon to have courage as well. Although she knew Jon worshipped the Old Gods rather than the Seven, she’d felt that the Warrior was the best match for Jon. The statue in this Sept even looked like him, almost. She prayed to the Smith to help her put the situation to rights, to the Maiden for her own courage, to the Crone for guidance, but stopped before the Stranger.

Even under the guidance of her Septa and knowing that the Stranger was just one of the seven faces of the god (“remember, girl, they are not Seven Gods, but Seven Who Are One — and the Stranger is the equal of the other six”), she’d always found the Stranger unnerving. An outcast, neither dead nor alive, neither male or female. The statue of the Stranger in this Sept made this aspect of the Seven look as animalistic as Sansa had ever seen: the shape of the Stranger’s hooded head looked far from human, and instead of hands the statue’s arms ended in the paws of a big cat, it’s claws partially extended to dig into the human skull it held. 

Sansa halted before she could light a candle to the Stranger, and contemplated the statue. The Stranger was an outcast, and hadn’t Jon been raised as an outcast? Not family, not truly, but also not full cut off from them and left to forge his own identity. He wasn’t a Stark, and he wasn’t a Targaryen either. All his life he’d been pulled in two directions at once, outcast and alone.

A large shape pressed against her from behind, and Sansa realised that perhaps she too had more in common with the Stranger than she’d first realised, being able to enter Lyanna’s mind as she could. Maybe if the Stranger wasn’t fully human, then Sansa wasn’t either.

And maybe that was okay.

She lit a candle to the Stranger, and knelt in the middle of the Sept in prayer, Lyanna a solid furry bulwark beside her. She heard the crash of the ocean intermingled with Lyanna’s soft pants, and thought long and hard about whether she should tell Jon that his father wasn’t his father. That he was someone else entirely.

Or whether she could stomach telling such a lie. A lie that might make the current situation easier, but would lead to issues in the long run.

Sansa knelt deep in thought and prayer until the sun started to rise, and her stomach growled. She lifted her head to see that the rising sun was streaming through the stained glass windows of the Sept and casting the Stranger in golden light.

Slowly, she got to her knees, supporting herself on Lyanna. She couldn’t keep the lie going. She couldn’t continue to let Jon believe he was an outcast when he wasn’t. She would have to tell him the truth.

* * *

In the end, there was nothing for it. They needed to tell the Queen, and they needed to tell her now.

Tyrion had grabbed Ser Davos as soon as the meal was over, and gotten confirmation from him — the boy was Robert’s. He was familiar with Dragonstone as he’d been here before, as a prisoner of Stannis. Stannis had acknowledged the boy as his nephew, and the Red Woman had used his blood in a ritual to ensure the deaths of Joffrey, Balon Greyjoy, and Robb Stark before Davos had helped him escape.

Lady Olenna had managed to waylay Ser Barristan before he could sight the boy, and thus they were able to request an audience with Daenerys first thing the next morning before anyone could spill the beans.

Davos had sworn up and down that the boy was a good lad, didn’t want the throne, and was the best blacksmith they had. He was hoping this would be enough to protect the boy, but Tyrion had grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill and worked out what he thought was going to be the most persuasive argument.

“Your Grace,” said Tyrion as he bowed low to the Throne, the others following suit. “May I introduce Gendry Waters, the leader of the blacksmiths brought from King’s Landing?”

The boy bowed again, and Daenerys smiled. “Welcome to Dragonstone, Gendry. Is the forge sufficient?”

“It’ll take some time to get the fires proper hot, Your Grace, but everything is well set up. We’re working out how to deal with the dragonglass. It’s been a hard material to work with so far. Small pieces are fine — arrowheads and the like — but anything bigger is likely to be a pain in the ar-” He stopped himself just in time, and Tyrion could tell Daenerys was hiding a smile at Gendry’s words.

 _Good,_ he thought. _If she likes him, she’ll hopefully be more lenient._

“There’s just one thing, Your Grace,” said Tyrion, and then stopped, unsure how to say it. He looked at Oberyn for help, but the Dornishman just shrugged. Davos was looking at his feet, and Brienne was still staring at Gendry as if he was a ghost.

“I’m Robert Baratheon’s son,” said Gendry, his tone matter of fact. “Bastard son.”

Daenerys’ polite smile faded.

“He’s also your second cousin,” said Tyrion hurriedly. “Your fathers were cousins - it was Rhaelle, Robert’s grandmother, that gave him a claim to the Iron Throne.”

“A cousin?” said Daenerys, now looking far more interested. 

Gendry shrugged. “So they say. I’ve no interest in a throne, though.”

Daenerys tapped her fingers on the throne, clearly thinking. “After all this time, I apparently have family left after all? My lords, it seems too good to be true.”

Gendry nodded, and at that point Olenna entered with Ser Barristan, who stopped short. “Robert?” he asked, his face pale in shock, and Daenerys sighed.

“Well, that answers that,” she muttered, and gestured Gendry forward. “Gendry Waters. On the Old Gods and the New, do you swear your allegiance to me, and no other? Do you swear that you will never rise against me or my children?”

Ser Davos whispered “kneel, boy,” and Gendry followed his suggestion.

“I have no sword, Your Grace, but I do have a hammer,” he said. “On my hammer, and on my life, I swear my allegiance to you, and no other. I swear that I will never rise against you or your children. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New.”

“And I vow, you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table,” the Queen responded. “I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New.”

She descended the steps down from the Throne, and raised Gendry from his knees. When he was fully standing she had to reach up on her toes to brush a kiss over his cheek. “Welcome, cousin. Thank you for the work you’ve done in the forge, and I will take your recommendations of who should replace you as head blacksmith.”

“Your Grace?” he asked, puzzled.

Daenerys smiled at him, and squeezed his upper arms. “We’ll have to find you something else to do, as well as a different name. I am loathe to let the Baratheon name ring out again, yet ‘Waters’ will not do for the name of my cousin.”

“Your Grace is betrothed to a Snow,” remarked Tyrion softly, and that clearly gave Daenerys pause for thought.

“Ah. Yes,” she said, clearly looking lost.

“Your Grace, I don’t want to hand over the forge,” said Gendry before Daenerys could say something else. “Ser Davos has told me of the battle you are facing. If what he has said is true about what’s up there, I can’t wait out this war. I’m not a commander, or a knight. I can’t swing a sword, though I can handle myself in a fight. I’m a smith, and a good one. You need weapons. I can craft you them.”

“Your Grace,” said Brienne, stepping forward. “I could adopt Gendry into my household.”

Daenerys blinked at this, and even Olenna looked surprised. 

“Rhaelle Targaryen was my grandmother’s mother,” explained Brienne. “I think that makes Gendry my cousin also. I don’t have an heir, so Gendry could serve as mine.”

“Targaryen blood runs through House Tarth?” said Daenerys, her eyes wide with hope. “I thought Robert had killed everyone with Targaryen blood.”

Oberyn snorted. “He’d’ve had to kill himself in that case, as it was his Targaryen grandmother that gave him claim to the throne. No, your Grace, you have more cousins than you might expect, scattered here and there. I’m some kind of cousin as well — the Martells can trace our lineage back to Maron Martell, the Prince of Dorne. He was married to the first Daenerys Targaryen — and you yourself are a direct descendent of Daeron II Targaryen and Mariah Martell.”

“It’s true, your Grace,” confirmed Tyrion when Daenerys looked at him. “There was a pair of marriages between the Targaryens and Martells, hundreds of years ago. It is how Dorne finally became part of the Seven Kingdoms after years of fighting for their independence.”

Daenerys sighed. “And thus the lack of a Maester or a Septon in my education becomes clear, once again. Lord Tyrion, are you able to draw me a complete family tree? Focusing on those cousins still alive?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know them as well as I should, your Grace. The line from Gendry to yourself was simple enough, but going back generations is difficult without the books of lineage in the Citadel. Maester Pylos may be able to tell you more, or Sam.”

She nodded, and took a step back to look at both Gendry and Brienne. “In which case, I shall celebrate the cousins I have, and look forward to meeting the ones I do not yet know. It pleases me to name you Gendry Smith of House Tarth, cousin. We shall have a feast tonight announcing the expansion of my family. Cousin Gendry, I leave the crafting of weapons in your capable hands, and Cousin Brienne — I look forward to getting to know you better as we raise the banners of the Stormlands together.”

Tyrion noted that while Gendry looked pleased to still be able to practice his craft, Brienne looked less pleased to be named a royal cousin — or to have the queen pay such close attention to her.

* * *

“Jon,” Sansa said, and then her voice failed her. He looked up at her from where he’d been ruffling Lyanna’s fur around her head while the direwolf tried her best to lick him in response, and Sansa felt her heart leap into her throat. His brown eyes were so trusting — they looked so much like their father’s.

Her father’s. His uncle’s.

At least, she thought they looked the same. They were the same colour, but she wasn’t sure about the shape. Her eyes were Tully eyes, and it had been so long since she’d seen any of her other siblings to know if their eyes were any different.

“Jon...there’s something you should know.”

He rose, the happiness at Lyanna’s enthusiasm for him fading as he stood. “Have you had a raven? Is there something wrong with Daenerys?”

“No, Jon, it’s not about Daenerys. Well, not really. I mean, it kind of is, but...not.”

 _Seven give me courage!_ Sansa thought, not knowing where to begin.

“Your mother was Lyanna Stark,” said Jaime bluntly, and Jon blanched. 

“Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen,” said Sansa hurriedly, in case Jon got the wrong idea.

“Ned wasn’t my father?” Jon asked, his voice faint.

“I don’t think so,” said Jaime. “When I was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I learned a few things I hadn’t known when I was younger. At the end of Robert’s Rebellion, there were three members of the Kingsguard stationed at a tower in Dorne — Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Hightower. No one from the Royal Family was remotely near Dorne at that stage — hell, this was after the Sack of King’s Landing, by which time the only Targaryens left were Rhaella and her child on Dragonstone. Yet three members of the Kingsguard were at this godsforsaken tower, long after their Prince was dead, and they stood between Ned Stark and his sister until they died. It’s only after this that there are any records of Ned Stark with a babe.”

“What?” said Jon, clearly disbelieving.

“Lord Stark lifted the siege at Storm’s End, and left his army there when he rode south. There was no babe with him when he left the army and it’s camp followers, yet when he arrived at Starfall to deliver Dawn to the Lady Ashara, the babe was with him,” said Jaime. “Therefore logically, he found the babe — you — somewhere in his travels. We know he was at the same tower as three of the Kingsguard, despite no one from the royal family being there. Unless, of course, there was a member of the royal family there — you.”

“Me? A Targaryen bastard? No.”

Jaime shrugged. “Actually, you could have been trueborn. It wasn’t unheard of for the Targaryens to have multiple wives. Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark the queen of love and beauty, and stole her away. Who’s to say he didn’t marry her after that? Either way, it seems to me that you’re not Ned Stark’s son — you’re Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark’s son.”

“Do you have any proof?” asked Jon, his voice faint, and Sansa reached for him. He pulled his hand back with a glare. “Do you believe this?”

“It makes sense, Jon. More sense than our father cheating on my mother.”

“Your father, apparently, not mine!” he snapped in return. “How do I know this isn’t just some ploy to claim Winterfell for yourself? I may not be a Stark, but then again, neither are you. You haven’t been for years, since you married into _his_ family,” Jon spat with a jerk of his head towards Jaime. “How do I know this whole thing hasn’t been some plot to seize control of the North for whatever Lannister reasons this fucking family has?”

“I have no proof, other than my suspicions,” said Jaime calmly, drawing Jon’s attention away from Sansa. “But I knew Rhaegar, and your Grace, you look like him. You have the Stark colouring, but the shape of your face and your eyes — it’s pure Rhaegar.”

“It’s treason,” Jon said. “It’s a lie, and it’s treason.”

“Jon!” called Sansa, surging to her feet, but Jon was gone. She stared after him, distraught, until the sound of a cup hitting the table distracted her.

She turned to see Jaime carefully filling two glasses of wine, before nudging one towards her. “He’ll come around,” he said confidently.

“Will he?” asked Sansa. “Everything he knows about himself is a lie now.”

Jaime snorted. “Not everything. He’s still King of the North, still a Stark, still as stubborn as all hell. Youngest Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch in some seven hundred years, and responsible for the peace between the Wildlings and the Night’s Watch — yes, we got that news, even here,” he said to the surprised look on Sansa’s face. “It’ll take him time to get used to the news, this is true, but he shouldn’t discount everything he’s achieved before now.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” said Sansa, a sudden thought hitting her. “Daenerys is his aunt.”

“If I’m right, then yes.”

“They’re betrothed.”

Jaime looked at her and blinked for a few minutes, then threw his head back in laughter. “Oh gods, really? More evidence in the Targaryen column, then! Blood will tell!”

Sansa gaped at him, and Jaime tried to calm himself with little success.

“It’s no laughing matter!”

“It is a bit funny, Lady Sansa. And it’s better for him to be betrothed to his aunt than to have sired children on his sister, is it not?”

Even after her conversation with Myrcella, Sansa couldn’t hide her shock that he would be so bold as to speak about his past, and Jaime’s laughter fled. 

“Oh, lighten up, good-sister. Everyone else has made such japes about my sins, why can’t I?”

“I never did.”

“Yes, but you’re a rare creature indeed, my Lady. You’re far too good for people like my brother and I. How he managed to land you, I still don’t know.”

Sansa reached for more wine. “He’s good, and kind, and clever. He promised to never hurt me, and he’s kept that promise.” _He’s everything your son was not and never would have been,_ she thought, and Jaime’s nod indicated that he'd heard what had gone unsaid.

They sat in silence for a time, drinking deep of the wine, before Sansa spoke again. “Will you follow him into battle?” She didn’t think she needed to specify who she meant by ‘him’.

“I’ve sworn so many oaths over the years, Lady Sansa. But some of them stand out. I swore to protect the innocent, and I swore to defend the King and his family. If I’m right, then following King Jon means keeping those oaths. If I’m wrong and he is just Ned Stark’s by-blow, then I can swear my sword to Queen Daenerys and still keep those oaths.”

Jaime took a long drink of his wine and set his empty cup down. He looked at his hands on the table — one gold, one flesh. Sansa watched as he clenched his flesh hand into a fist, and sighed.

“It sounds like a tale, the dead rising. But Rhaegar had put his faith in a prophecy, which stated that the prince that was promised would deliver the world from darkness. The old legends about the Others, about Azor Ahai, about the Doom of Valyria...he believed them all. It was those legends that persuaded Rhaegar to put aside his books and take up the sword, long after other boys begin their training. He’d tell me about them as we took breaks from sparring. If men as learned as Rhaegar and my brother both tell me that it is possible for the dead to rise and march on the living, then who am I to deny the call to battle them?”

He raised his head, and Sansa saw determination in his gaze. “Yes, Lady Sansa. I will heed the call. I will raise my banners, and the Westerlands will join with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never seen _Drake & Josh_, I just know that quote from tumblr (where I’m also lbswasp, so please come and say hi!)
> 
> You don’t want to know the amount of time I’ve spent in A Wiki of Fire and Ice working out who the heck is still alive and related to Daenerys Targaryen. It’s...a lot.


	9. The Dragon, the Wolf, the Viper and the Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth and fifth stitches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got inspiration (and like, 2 lines) of this chapter from Tamora Pierce’s ‘Wild Magic’. Also I quote from **that** Kit Harrington interview about riding the dragon buck. I’ve also grabbed a chunk on how difficult it is to have a combined Westerosi army from [astolat’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat) [“Competition”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18476920/chapters/43779232), because I thought it was absolutely brilliant and I didn’t know how to phrase it any better.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S03E10 ‘Mhysa’ and S08E02 ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’.

The next day, Jon still wasn’t talking to her, or to Jaime. He’d left the table as soon as they came to break their fasts, and from what Sansa could see, spent the entire day brooding on the cliffs, Lyanna at his side.

Every time she approached him to try and talk, Jon got up, glared, and stalked further away before pointedly sitting down again with a huff. In the end, Sansa decided to leave him be. 

Instead, she and Jaime spent the day planning for how the army of the West would meet up with the rest of Daenerys’ host.

“Bitterbridge is south of here,” said Jaime, “and the army is to the north, in Ashemark.”

“It makes little sense to march them south, only to immediately march them north,” said Sansa. “What is the army doing in Ashemark?”

“Maneuvers,” said Jaime. “Under the command of my cousin Addam.”

“I thought you commanded the army of the West,” mused Sansa as she looked at the map of the Westerlands and surrounds, mentally measuring the distance from Ashemark to Bitterbridge and trying to calculate how long it would take to get an army there.

“I do,” said Jaime. “But Addam is my heir, and if anything were to happen to me, it is he who would command the army. Now and again, I leave him in charge so he can get a taste of command and understand it better. Ours is a standing army, Lady Sansa. It is not made up of farmers and smallfolk who soldier on the side. Our lords pay a tithe that supports it, and while we have knights in the West, they are formed into their own units, and even they are called out on maneuvers at least once a year. It is fortuitous that the army — the full army, both regulars and knights — are together now at Ashemark. It means we can be ready to march as soon as I send the orders.”

“So they can start north without you.”

“And I can come to Bitterbridge with you. It’s a hard ride, but one man travelling light can make it to Silverhill in three days from here. It would be another three or four to Bitterbridge after that.”

“You wouldn’t want to ride Viserion with us?”

Jaime snorted. “No, I’m not sure I trust the beast. The ride won’t take long on a good horse.”

“And you have a good horse?”

“’Phire wasn’t overly fond of your winged beastie, but she’s the best horse I’ve ever had,” he said, fondness clear in his voice. “There’s a bit of sand steed in her, somewhere down the line. She can run for a day and night if I’m unarmoured.”

“The Dothraki can ride a hundred miles in a day,” said Sansa, nodding. Jaime goggled at her, and Sansa grinned.

“Are their horses magic?” he gaped.

“No,” she laughed, “they have remounts. And they can change horses without coming to a halt — jumping from one to the other. I saw it when I rode with them.”

“Did you ever learn the trick?” he asked, clearly fascinated, and looked disappointed when Sansa shook her head.

“Our ride south from Braavos wasn’t a fast one. Khal Onobo was paid to be our escort, and didn’t see any reason to exhaust his horses if he didn’t have to. But some of his younger riders did give us a demonstration, to show it could be done.”

“I can’t change horse at the gallop, but between ’Phire and a spare we should make the crossing in good time. When are you due to meet your Queen and her armies at Bitterbridge?”

“In nine days time.”

“Then we can get there early and set up the camp as best as we can.”

“You’d really ride across Westeros on your own? Without any men?”

“Between yourself, His Grace, your direwolf, and your dragon I think I’ll be fine. Besides, I damn well walked near the length of Westeros a few years back after your brother captured me. Doing it on horseback will be much easier — and far more pleasant.”

It was a nice plan, however Jon wasn’t having a bar of it.

Or rather, Jon flatly refused to ride Viserion with Sansa. “I’ll take a horse and go with Lord Jaime.”

Sansa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Jon -”

But he wouldn’t let her finish, and stormed off to the stables. Jaime shrugged. “Two of us on the ground makes more sense. We can watch each other’s backs.”

“Why is he okay with you?” spat Sansa, hurt at Jon’s refusal to talk to her. They’d been apart for so long, and now that they were finally back together, _now that she wasn’t the only Stark left in the world_ , it _ached_ that Jon was pulling away.

“Maybe because he expects me to be a bastard and a shit?” asked Jaime. “I’m the Kingslayer, the man who pushed his brother out of a window. He already thinks I’m a complete waste of air. He can snap and snarl at me for a few days, and get all the grumpy out of his system. Spend your days in the air with your dragon, and come down at night. Once we get to Bitterbridge thing’s’ll be different, you’ll see.”

“Since when did you become so smart?” asked Sansa, not feeling much better.

“I _am_ a Lannister. We’re clever folk.”

* * *

In the end, there were three of them riding — Bronn had appeared from somewhere, and Sansa was oddly pleased to see her husband’s old friend was still around.

“Fucking Lannisters,” groused Bronn as he stormed into the Great Hall of Casterly Rock and slumped into a seat at the table. “They promise, and promise, and promise, and never fucking deliver. This cunt,” he waved at Jaime with a chicken leg, “came to Stokeworth where I was happy with Lolys and maybe thinking up a few interesting things to do with her, and promised me a much better bride and a much better castle if I gave her over to some other lord to marry and came with ol’ one-hand here. So I did, because I’m a stupid cunt, and then what happens? Fucking nothing.”

Sansa raised her eyebrow at him over her wine. “So why are you still here?”

“This cunt owes me. I’m keeping him alive until he can pay me back. Besides, it’s not like that fucker can fight, not with his missing fucking hand. My grandmother, gods damn her, would have been able to take him in a fight the way he is now. So I hang around, make sure the cunt doesn’t get into a trouble he can’t get himself out of. Tyrion owes me money too. I want to see which brother will pay up first.”

Which Sansa translated as _Much to my horror, I’m actually fond of Jaime and want to make sure he continues to breathe. And I miss Tyrion._

So it was Jaime, Bronn, and Jon setting off on horseback together while Sansa and Lyanna took to the air upon Viserion. 

Jaime was right — they made good time on their horses, and each night Sansa descended to share their campsite. With both Viserion and Lyanna around, they realised they needn’t set a watch each night, and Bronn took this as a cue to produce wine from...somewhere.

Sansa didn’t really want to know where.

“Riding a dragon’s not the most comfortable thing,” said Jon over wine the night after they’d left Silverhill. Sansa had already retired for the night and gone to seek her bed underneath Viserion’s wing (the dragon was wonderfully warm to sleep against, and Viserion would carefully tuck Sansa and Lyanna under his wing each night to make sure they were safe after checking them both for hidden lemoncakes) but had not yet fallen asleep when Bronn asked Jon about riding a dragon.

“The first time we tried it was a fucking disaster,” he continued. “Viserion swung around really fast, too fast — I nearly fell off. I managed to stay on somehow, but my right ball got trapped. It was so fucking painful. All I could think of was ‘this is how it ends, on this dragon, clinging to my sister, being swung round by my balls. This is how I die.’”

Jaime and Bronn cracked up, and even Jon let out a chuckle. “Sorry lads. Probably too much information.”

The next day, Sansa couldn’t look Jon in the eye, but she was relieved to see he was actually smiling at his companions. It seemed like the storm had passed.

* * *

_The Fourth Stitch_

“You.”

Steel rang as Oberyn Martell and Jaime Lannister faced each other for the first time, and Sansa began to think she’d made a terrible mistake.

For all she could forgive Jaime Lannister for killing the Mad King, and even for Bran...Oberyn lost his sister.

And for the last twenty years, he’d blamed Jaime for it.

When she’d been in Dorne, the idea of going to Casterly Rock hadn’t even entered her mind, and there’d been no way to send a raven ahead — ravens were trained to fly from one castle to another, not from a castle to an army on the march. So there’d been no way to warn Oberyn that Jaime would be with them.

“You killed my sister.”

“Prince Oberyn, I did not kill your sister.”

 

“Liar! You should have been guarding her!”

Oberyn lunged at Jaime who leapt back out of range, and Sansa realised that unless she did something quickly they’d be down potentially the best general in the Seven Kingdoms — and she’d be out a goodbrother.

“Viserion! Keligon zirȳ!” she yelled as she gestured at the two men and hoped like hell that the dragon would understand what she meant. _I just want them to stop fighting, I don’t want them burned!_

Viserion muscled his great head between the men, forcing them apart and knocking them to the ground. Then, with an awkward hop, he managed to pin each man under a different leg. Jaime dropped his sword immediately, but Oberyn looked like he was thinking of stabbing Viserion and Jon quickly disarmed him, leaving the Dornishman cursing and trapped under a dragon’s foot.

“Right,” said Sansa with a nod. “Jon, let them yell at each other for a bit,” she said as she marched towards the camp, calling for a steward.

She returned shortly, to find Oberyn in mid-rant, and Jaime singing at the top of his lungs to try and drown him out.

“Really?” she asked him as she walked past, and Jaime shrugged as much as he could with Viserion pinning him down.

“It’s better than listening to him.”

Sansa couldn’t fault this one, so she turned to Jon. “I’ll sort this out. We’ll be back by nightfall, or they’ll both be dead and I’ll be feeding their bodies to Viserion.”

Without giving Jon a chance to ask her what she was planning to do, she climbed up on Viserion and commanded the dragon to fly, his talons curling and lifting the two men into the air, leaving Jon and Lyanna watching her from the ground.

They flew until they reached an empty paddock a few miles away, and Sansa signalled Viserion to land, the two men still held awkwardly in Viserion’s claws. It didn’t feel like a comfortable landing for any of them.

She dismounted and stopped between the two men, her hands on her hips. “My lords. This is unacceptable. You are the King and Queen’s trusted allies — you are _my_ trusted allies. We cannot afford to have the two of you at each other’s throats, because where you lead, your men will follow, and then half our energy will be spent keeping Dorne and the Westerlands apart and _we do not have the time_. So you are going to sort this out, here and now. Viserion will let you up, and then you will both strip your armour, shirts and boots off. You will give all weapons to me for safekeeping, and then you are free to pummel the shit out of each other until you can no longer stand. Understand?”

“What if we don’t do that?”

“Then Viserion will burn you alive, and if any of your men object we will burn them too. We want you as allies — both of you — but we can do without one of you if we must. So what will it be, my lords? Fire or fight?”

“Fight.”

“Fight,” agreed Oberyn begrudgingly.

Sansa let them up one by one to disrobe and hand over their weapons — the amount that Oberyn pulled from different pockets was truly astonishing — but she let Jaime keep his golden hand. 

She figured Oberyn had another knife stashed somewhere, and decided Jaime could use a defensive weapon just in case.

Viserion sprawled himself down in the late afternoon sun, and Sansa settled herself against his warm breathing hide, its combination of resilience and softness as familiar to her as the feeling of the wind against her cheeks. She yelled “Go!” and the two men lunged at each other.

It wasn’t a pretty fight. Jaime was fighting defensively, she could see that, but Oberyn was furious with rage and pain. Jaime had the longer reach and greater weight, but he was slightly slower, and less accurate with his left hand. Oberyn ducked and weaved and twisted around Jaime, getting a rabbit punch in to Jaime’s kidneys then leaping away before Jaime could turn and grapple him to the ground. 

Oberyn struck Jaime’s face with a viper-quick blow, bloodying his nose. Oberyn danced back until he was out of reach. “Yield?”

Jaime spat his blood on the ground. “Fuck you, Martell.”

This time, when Oberyn leapt for him Jaime was better prepared, and feinted so that Oberyn’s strike went sailing past him. Jaime turned and threw his own first at Oberyn.

“Fuck!” roared Oberyn. “That was my fucking ear!”

Jaime tackled him from behind at that point, and Sansa largely lost track of which blows and curses belonged to whom as they rolled about on the ground, sending dust, dirt and the odd clump of grass flying. 

Eventually, their exhaustion got the better of them, and they stilled, side-by-side on the ground, feebly kicking at each other like sullen children. Sansa wandered over, carrying the three of the skins of Dornish red she’d grabbed from the camp’s supplies.

She popped the cork on one and took a great swig. “Prince Oberyn, I know you blame Lord Jaime for your sister’s death, but it was not his fault. She did not die by his hand, nor by his orders.” Sansa gave Jaime his own wine skin, and he drank greedily. “Jaime was the only Kingsguard left in King’s Landing that day. The primary duty of the Kingsguard is to protect the King, over all other members of the royal family. You know this,” she said as he glared at Jaime.

Oberyn grumbled, but when Sansa held the wine skin out of his exhausted reach he nodded his agreement with obvious reluctance and sat up. “You still should have tried to save her.”

“I thought they were safe,” said Jaime, the grief and regret clear in his voice. “No one had ever taken the Red Keep before. I thought they were safe, and I couldn’t risk the pyromancers carrying out Aerys’ orders. I was in the tunnels when the Mountain and his men entered the Keep — I didn’t even know it had been done until the next morning. I’m sorry, Oberyn. Elia was kind and clever and sweet, and deserved a better life than Rhaegar gave her.”

“She deserved everything good!” Oberyn roared. “She was the most beautiful!”

“The most!” echoed Jaime.

“The most gracious!”

“No one was more so!”

“She was gentle and good!”

“The best!”

“And your father ordered her death.”

Jaime slumped. “He did. I’m sorry I could not stop it.”

Something Jaime had said earlier seemed to return to Oberyn’s mind. He looked puzzled and asked, “Pyromancers?”

“Aerys had caches of wildfire hidden around the city. He’d ordered his pyromancers to burn them all.”

Oberyn shuddered and drank deep from his wine. “You stopped them?”

“I stopped them. And then I killed Aerys, to make sure he couldn’t light it himself.”

“Half a million souls and you couldn’t save three more.”

Jaime nodded. “I will regret that for the rest of my days.”

“As you should,” said Oberyn slowly. “But I understand better now. And Elia would have wished for you to save the city. I cannot forgive you, though I no longer want to kill you.”

Sansa raised her wineskin high. “To Elia Martell!”

“To Elia Martell!” the men chorused, and they all drank deep.

* * *

Several hours later, Viserion returned to the camp, carrying three very drunk humans. 

“All black and brown, and covered in hair!” they caterwauled as Viserion dumped them from his shoulder with a shake, spat out a mouthful of clothing, armour and weapons, and took off with a huff.

Jon, Garlan, and Obara looked at the giggling pile of Sansa, Jaime, and Oberyn — the latter two without shirts. “Well, this isn’t a sight I ever thought I’d see,” said Garlan.

“You didn’t see her!” slurred Oberyn. “She was the most beautiful!”

“The prettiest!” agreed Sansa, swaying as Jon helped her to her feet.

“She had, she had...the nicest eyes!” hiccuped Jaime into Garlan’s shoulder. “And she would always share her spice biscuits. She had the best biscuits.”

“I never got to have her biscuits!” wailed Sansa.

“She was the best!” yelled Oberyn.

“The best!” roared Sansa and Jaime in response as they all were led away to separate corners of the camp to quiet down and sleep it off.

* * *

_The Fifth Stitch_

The first sign was the ground shaking.

The second was the dragons swooping overhead, their shrieks splitting the air. Viserion roared in welcome and leapt into the air, dancing and soaring around his brothers.

And on the ground the magnificent party rode into view — mail-clad warriors on beautiful horses rode four abreast, their grey, hooded capes flapping grandly at their backs. The earth shook with the pounding of their steeds’ hooves, and before them rode a standard-bearer, the Targaryen sigil snapping proudly on it’s field of black.

At the front of the army rode a single knight in blue armour, his bay brushed to a glossy sheen and his shield shining in the light, showing yellow suns on rose quartered with white crescents on azure. Sansa frantically wracked her sore, hungover brain to think what House had that sigil, and then it came to her. That was the sigil of House Tarth, and the knight at the front of this army must be Brienne of Tarth.

Obara, Jaime, and Garlan gathered behind Sansa and Jon as the Stormlords came to a halt, leaving a space for Drogon to thump down and Daenerys to dismount. As soon as the Queen was safe on the ground, Drogon took off and Daenerys walked briskly up to them; Brienne of Tarth dismounting and coming up as well.

“Your Grace,” said Jon, nodding at Daenerys.

“Your Grace,” she answered. “You have more banners than expected.”

In the end, there had been a few Houses on the way from Casterly Rock to Bitterbridge that Jaime had raised to bring with them. There weren’t many, and they were far from warriors, but it did mean that the golden lion of the Lannisters was not the only banner from the Westerlands flying above their camp, at least until they could meet up with the army of the West.

Jon beckoned Jaime forward. “I do, your Grace. I present Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Lord Commander of the Army of the West.”

“And my father’s murderer.”

Everyone froze.

“When I was younger, my brother would tell me stories of the man who killed our father. Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor. He told me other stories as well; stories about all the things we would do to that man.”

At that point, the dragons left off their cavorting in the air and landed in a circle around the Queen, her allies and advisors — and Jaime.

“But my brother didn’t have dragons in his stories about what we would do to that man. And I do.”

Drogon opened his mouth to show the flames boiling at the back of his throat.

“So why should I spare the life of the man who killed my father?”

“Your Grace,” said Brienne, moving to stand between Daenerys and Jaime. “I know Ser Jaime. And I know why he killed your father. Ser Jaime is a man of honour. I was his captor once, but when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me and lost his hand because of it. When they threw me into a bear pit with only a wooden sword, he threw himself in to try and save me.”

“You largely saved yourself,” Sansa heard Jaime mutter, and saw Brienne’s hand twitch with annoyance.

“Without him, your Grace, I would not be alive. And I would not be with you now. He armed me, armoured me, all because he’d sworn an oath to Lady Stark. He sent me to fulfill my own oath to Catelyn Stark to find her daughters and take them safely home. I was unable to fulfill that promise, though it seems her daughters have done well enough on their own,” she said with a bow towards Sansa. “Your Grace...yes, he killed your father. But not without reason. Aerys had planted caches of wildfire throughout the city — including underneath the Great Sept and the Rep Keep itself. He had planned to leave the rebels nothing but ashes and bones, and had given the order to ignite it to the pyromancers. He then ordered Ser Jaime to kill his own father and bring his head to Aerys. That is when Ser Jaime made the hardest decision any of us could ever make. He chose to break his oaths and damn his own honour to save his father and the innocent of King’s Landing. Half a million people would have died that day, if not more, had Ser Jaime not made that decision.”

“Is this true?” asked Daenerys.

Brienne nodded. “I heard it from Ser Jaime himself, then later sought out those who could confirm the events. The pyromancers in King’s Landing confirmed that they had been ordered to create large amounts of wildfire and hide it around the city by the King. And there is certainly no doubt among any who saw him in those final few weeks that he was mad enough to have given such an order. At Winterfell, I spoke with King Jon’s brother, who also confirmed these events. I know them to be as true as myself.”

“And you are true indeed, cousin,” said Daenerys. “So you vouch for him?”

“I do,” said Brienne firmly.

“You would fight beside him?”

“I would.”

“And you would be his champion?”

“In this, and in all things,” said Brienne, a challenge in her voice.

Daenerys smiled sadly. “I trust you with my life, cousin. If you trust him with yours, then I give him into your care. He is here upon your word. Lord Jaime, I accept your surrender, and the provision of your army, wherever it is.”

“It is at Ashemark, your Grace,” he said. “North of here. I didn’t see the logic of marching them south only to turn them around and head immediately north. They will meet us at Pinkmaiden.”

“What does the King in the North have to say about it?”

Jon stepped forward. “We need every man we can get, and Lord Jaime has promised us the army of the West — twenty thousand men and a thousand mounted knights. Moreover, Lord Jaime is an experienced commander of combined armies. The tactics of the Night’s Watch and the Free Folk are not the tactics of the Westerlands. We need his experience if we are to use his men properly.”

Sansa stepped forward. “Your Grace, we need a man who can keep an entire army in their head. We can’t fight the Night King by committee. The Dothraki all fight roughly the same way. It’s a brilliant and totally overwhelming technique, but it requires a lifetime of training and horsemanship. The rest of our people can’t learn to fight the Dothraki way. And there’s a number of different styles of fighting among the Westerosi forces. Whoever commands your armies will need to know how to use them all, and I don’t think any of the rest of us are qualified.”

Daenerys looked sceptical, but Sansa barrelled on. “For one instance: we’ve got a brigade of Dornish spearmen, and three of pikemen from the Reach. I have no idea how there is a difference but I'm sure there is one, because I once heard my father say ‘that fool would try to use Dornish spearmen in place of Reach pikes.’ From that I reason the difference is probably quite significant, but I don’t actually know what it is.”

Sansa looked at Jon, Obara, and Garlan, who shrugged in return.

“The Dornish fight in light mail or unarmored,” said Jaime. “They’re skirmishers: they create a screen for an advance, and try to puncture opposing lines of infantry. You need to back them with heavy cavalry such as that from the Stormlands. The Knights of the Vale or Dorne wouldn’t work, as they are light cavalry and need more room to maneuver. Reach pikemen fight in plate, and they’re best anchoring your lines against cavalry. Put a Dornish company in the middle of your front line, and your front line won’t last very long. From what I’ve heard, your Dothraki are berserkers, while the men of the Night’s Watch and the Free Folk both seem to ascribe to the ‘just keep hitting it until it’s dead’ school of fighting, neither of which work well when combined with Reach pikemen. The Stormlords are good melee fighters, while the Knights of the Vale are good at hit and run movements, though in a slightly different fashion from that of the Dornish horse. Many of the Knights of the Reach are known for their skill with the lance, which means they should be kept in reserve for the giants I am told are in the Night King’s army. The standing armies of the Reach and the West both have different tactics, and their instincts pull them in different directions even if given the same commands. Moreover, you have both short, long and crossbow companies — all of those are best used in different ways. I'm not familiar with how your Unsullied fight, but the rumours I've heard from across the Narrow Sea it seems they will fight more like Reach pikemen than anyone else."

“You certainly appear to know your warcraft,” the Queen nodded in response, though she still looked reluctant. “Very well. For now you may live, and I will consider your application to be my general. But Lord Jaime, know this: if you betray me, or any of my people, you will die. As will my cousin. Her survival rests on your honour.”

* * *

Gendry was surprisingly good at sea. Tyrion, it turned out, was less good.

“You’re a bastard from Flea Bottom,” Tyrion grumbled at Gendry as he threw up once again over the railing of the ship. “How the fuck do you have sea legs?”

The smith chuckled, and handed Tyrion a ladle of water to wash his mouth out with. “Dunno. I think rowing from Dragonstone back to King’s Landing probably cured me of any sickness I might have had.”

Tyrion sat down on the deck, his back against the railing. “You rowed. From Dragonstone to King’s Landing.”

“Aye,” said Gendry as he sat beside him, pulling his legs up to keep out of the way of the Ironborn sailors. “Took forever. Davos got me out of the cell on Dragonstone, pointed me at a star and told me to aim for it, and gave me bread and water. ‘Go slow with it,’ he said, the old bastard. ‘If you finish it off, no matter how thirsty you get, don’t drink seawater.’ He said it would take me a full day and night of rowing to get to Rook’s Rest, and from there, keep the shore on my left until I get to King’s Landing.”

“He sent you to King’s Landing? Weren’t the Gold Cloaks looking for all of Robert’s bastards, still, at that time?”

“They were,” said Gendry. “But as Davos pointed out, they didn’t know my face, and the Red Woman did. He told me that as long as I kept my head down and stayed out of trouble, they’d never find me. He was right about that, even if it took twice as long to reach Rook’s Rest as he told me. I’d never rowed a boat before, and the oars tore my hands to shreds. So I took off my shirt to wrap it around my hands, then my back fair blistered in the sun. By the time I reached King’s Landing I was a miserable skinny wreck near burned to a crisp, but still. I had a bowl of brown for him, and when my hands had healed, I went back to work. Good smiths are hard to come by, after all.”

“And now here you are. Head smith and cousin to a Targaryen Queen.”

“Here I am indeed,” he said, and they fell silent, watching life aboard the ship. The hull was full of dragonglass and the ships around them were heavily laden with dragonglass, or the Dothraki and their horses, or the Unsullied. They’d mined nearly everything they could in the last two months, and were now making their way north. They were betting on being able to make weapons easier at Winterfell than on Dragonstone, where the forge was cramped and the raw materials outside of dragonglass limited. Olenna Tyrell had elected to stay behind on Dragonstone with a skeleton force, in case Cersei tried anything while Daenerys was away.

“Swords take training to use,” said Tyrion, watching as some of the Ironborn sparred with each other to keep their skills sharp, their stances shifting and rolling with the movement of the deck.

“‘T’s why I use my hammer,” replied Gendry. “I know how to make swords, but not wield them. Hammers I know.”

“You really are your father’s son,” said Tyrion. “We’re expecting a lot of untrained men — and women — to be fighting with us against the Night King. What are your plans to arm them?”

“I was thinking bladed maces.” At Tyrion’s questioning look, Gendry elaborated. “Clubs with spikes of dragonglass around the end. You can have a shield on one arm and bash away at the enemy with the other hand. Requires far less training than a sword or an axe, and doesn’t have the inconvenient chain of a morningstar. We can also try putting some shards of dragonglass on the shields themselves — make them both an offensive and a defensive weapon. I might see if I can get the Dothraki to use the maces as well — we had a few goes at trying to make an arakh with dragonglass but it doesn’t like being in a curve.”

Tyrion nodded, then scrambled to the side to be sick again.

Once his stomach had settled for the time being, it was Gendry’s turn to open the conversation. “I was actually coming to ask your advice, my lord. You’re betrothed to the Lady Sansa, are you not?”

“We were married, years ago, and for some reason she has decided I am still worth her time,” he said as he slowly sipped his water. “Why?”

“A few years ago, I met her sister, who told me to head to Winterfell. Arya and I travelled together for a while — she saved my life, and I saved hers, and...I want to see her again. Seeing as how we are now going to Winterfell, I was hoping for your advice.”

“My advice?”

“On how to romance a Stark woman.”

Tyrion snorted his water over the deck.


	10. The Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth and seventh stitches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I’ve mentioned a few times that I take my inspiration for the dragons in this fic to be partially from Naomi Novik’s _Temeraire_ books. Well, in this chapter, I borrow another idea from those books, as well as a scene inspired by Tamora Pierce’s _Wolf-Speaker_ and [Sarra Manderly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/Sarra%20Manderly)’s [A Rose and A Mockingbird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11181588/chapters/24965274) (which was also inspired by Tamora Pierce, but was what reminded me of it, so…).
> 
> I’ve moved the dragonpit out of King’s Landing for...reasons.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S07E07 ‘The Dragon and the Wolf’.

“This is a foolish plan.” The majority of their forces had marched north, Obara Sand in charge of their forces. The rest of their command — Sansa, Oberyn, Garlan, Jaime, and Brienne — as well as the King and Queen, had ridden northeast to King’s Landing.

They had come to try and convince Cersei and Euron to ally with them against the dead. Sansa thought it was a stupid plan and thought Daenerys agreed with her, but Jaime and Jon had insisted they try.

So they’d sent Bronn ahead to make the arrangements, and were now gathered out of sight of the city, ready to meet the Queen in the dragonpit outside the city walls.

Well, the old dragonpit. It was a ruin now, destroyed when Dreamfyre had torn through it’s ceiling as she tried to escape a furious mob, bringing down the entire structure and killing herself and hundreds of the rioters.

As there were no dragons left after that, it had never been rebuilt. It’s location as outside-of-the-city-yet-in-the-city meant it was the agreed upon location for a parley with Cersei.

Unless Sansa could persuade her brother and her Queen that the entire thing would be a waste of time. Jon had suggested that maybe Cersei would be convinced if they were able to show her a wight, and that maybe he and a few of their best soldiers could go beyond The Wall, capture a wight, and bring it to King’s Landing in an effort to convince Cersei.

Sansa had dismissed that plan as a waste of time. “What’s to stop the rest of the wights and the Night King from killing you all and adding you to his army?”

“Well, maybe Daenerys could come and save us with her dragons…”

Sansa had rolled her eyes so hard they’d hurt at that stupid suggestion, and that was the end of that foolish plan.

Jaime swore he could convince Cersei though, and both Jon and Daenerys were curious to see the woman they had heard so much about, therefore a parley it was. So _this_ foolish plan was occuring. 

_I wish Tyrion was here,_ thought Sansa. _I’m sure he’d help me convince Jon and Daenerys that when it comes to Cersei, words are wind._

“Your Grace,” said Daenerys to Jon, “I would suggest you enter the dragonpit on a dragon rather than a horse. It will look better, and being on dragonback gives us more time to scope the land before landing and endangering ourselves.”

“You’ll look a right twat if you’re clutching onto your sister though,” piped up Bronn. Sansa raised her eyebrow at Bronn, who nodded in response.

Daenerys grinned, and Rhaegal moved forward to nudge at Jon’s back. “Then isn’t it convenient I have a third dragon? Your Grace, this is Rhaegal.”

Jon shot Sansa and Jaime at look when he heard the dragon’s name, but agreed that entering the parley on dragonback would look more impressive. 

Sansa, Daenerys and Jon waited while the rest of their party cantered off, and then waited some more. The hour that the parley was to begin had been marked before Daenerys suggested they mount up, and fly to join the others.

If Cersei had been impressed or threatened by their arrival on dragons, her face didn’t show it.

“We’ve been here for some time,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

“Were you?” asked Daenerys, sweetness coating her voice. “It seems your King isn’t even here yet.”

“My son and his Queen are indisposed. I speak in their place.”

With Missandei travelling with the Dothraki and Unsullied as their interpreter, it was down to the Queen to introduce herself and Jon. She did so while listing as many of their titles as she could, finishing with “And I’ve been told you know my Hand, Lady Sansa, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Cersei’s eyes blazed with fury, and Sansa just smiled at her. 

“Little dove,” said Cersei. “So you come flying back to King’s Landing after all.”

“On much better wings this time, your Grace,” responded Sansa, her tone dripping with sweetness to match her Queen’s. “And with much sharper claws.” She desperately wanted to mention Tyrion, just to see if she could really piss Cersei off, but decided against it. 

She could always bring him up later.

“And with some little friends,” Cersei said. “A Dornish peacock, what looks like another flowering fop from the Reach, and...is that a woman?”

“There is no love lost between us,” Sansa said, walking forward and ignoring the insults to her friends. “We have suffered at each other’s hands, and each of us, all of us, know the pain of losing a loved one to the wars and battles of the game of thrones. If all we wanted was more of the same, we wouldn’t need to be here. We have dragons,” she said, gesturing to where they were arranged on the crumbling steps of the dragonpit. “We could destroy King’s Landing and all who live in it with nary a shot fired from you in defence. But we don’t wish to destroy King’s Landing.”

“So instead you thought we would meet, where your sweetness would convince me to give up my throne to a Targaryen?” asked Cersei. “Where you could sing your pretty song to induce us to put aside our differences and live in harmony? Are there unicorns, as well as dragons, in the world you live in?” she tittered. “This isn’t one of your stories, or a pretty piece of embroidery. Run along little girl — the grown ups are talking.”

“She’s the Hand of the Queen and the Lady of Winterfell, not a little girl,” said Jon, coming forward and standing beside Sansa. “And it’s not about living in harmony. It’s just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can’t negotiate with, an army that doesn’t leave corpses behind, and a battlefield that will consume us all if we don’t join together. My sister says there is a million people living in King’s Landing. That’s a million more soldiers for the army of the dead, unless we stop them.”

“I imagine for most of them it would be an improvement,” dismissed Cersei, signalling for one of her servants to bring her more wine. He rushed to do the bidding, and Sansa cast her eye over him and his ilk. All young, and blonde, and very pretty. _She has a type, _Sansa thought absently.__

“This is serious,” growled Jon. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t.”

Cersei took a slow sip of her wine. “I don’t think it’s serious at all. I think it’s another time you Northerners have gotten spooked by snarks and grumpkins, and you’re wanting to use it as a shield to hide your true motives.”

“And what do you imagine those motives are?” asked Daenerys.

“To persuade me to let down my guard, and draw my troops away from the city, so you can take my throne,”said Cersei. “And kill my son.”

Jaime moved forward at that. “Tommen? He’s alive?”

Cersei nodded, a pained-looking flickering thing. “He’s not well, but he is alive. He misses you. Come back to me — to us — and he’ll get much better, I’m sure.” She looked up through her lashes. “I’ve missed you, brother. We were never meant to be apart for so long.”

Jaime shivered like a fly-stung horse. “Cersei...it’s the truth. The dead are coming, and unless we join together we will join them.”

“Have you seen them?” she asked.

Jaime shook his head, and Jon spoke up instead. “I have, your Grace. There’s a hundred thousand of them, if not more by now.”

“Only you?” Cersei asked. “You, and no one else? You want me to ride to war on your word, and nothing else? On the word of the bastard son of a man who made such sick and twisted claims about my own children? No,” Cersei shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. The Crown will not ride in support of an usurper. We will not give you our army. We will hold King’s Landing against all comers — living or dead. And if we can’t hold the city, we can hold the Red Keep. It has never been breached — except by treachery.”

She stood, drawing her head up high and looking down her nose at them. 

“You have until dawn to be out of sight of the city. If you or your dragons are sighted by the city guards, this will be taken as a declaration of war.”

* * *

Their party left the dragonpit quickly after that, though Jaime lingered, looking in the direction Cersei had stalked. Eventually, Brienne solved the problem by riding her horse in front of Jaime, blocking his view. 

From Viserion’s back in the air, Sansa couldn’t hear what Brienne said to Jaime, but it must have been effective as he mounted his horse and their advisors left the dragonpit at a canter.

The dragons leapt into the air, and Sansa guided Viserion into taking the lead over the city. Drogon and Rhaegal went in the other direction, and it took them several long moments to realise their brother was not with them.

Snow had begun to fall over the city when they caught up to the cream and gold dragon just in time to see Viserion roar fire at a long, tall building at the side of the Red Keep overlooking the ocean.

* * *

The second they hit the ground Daenerys stormed over to Sansa. “What were you thinking?” roared Daenerys as Drogon tried to bite Viserion and Rhaegal (and Jon) skittered out of the way.

“I was thinking that without something to keep her in King’s Landing there was nothing to stop Cersei from attacking us from behind!”

“She’d given her word!”

“She did no such thing!” yelled Sansa. “She said she wouldn’t give you her army, and that she’d hold the city, and if not the city, then she’d hold the castle. There was no mention of support for you -”

“How dare you -”

“She listened to you, and promptly ignored you! You don’t know her, not like I do! She’ll -”

“And how many people — how many of _my_ people — did you just kill with your stupid little stunt?”

“None! The Throne Room isn’t guarded unless the Court is in session, and Bronn passed on the word that it should be empty!”

“So you planned this?”

“I knew we had to have the option!”

“You forget yourself!”

“I’m your fucking _Hand_ , Daenerys. My bloody job is to think of plans and contingencies to protect you and your Throne, even if you haven’t taken it yet!”

“It is not your job to burn down my castle!”

“You’ve never even set foot in it! I have! And the world is a better place without that fucking room! I’ve bought us _time_. Without this to distract her, Cersei would have come up the Kingsroad as fast as she can move her army, and we would be caught between two armies!”

“We have the largest army -”

“Which means shit to the dead _unless we win_ -”

“And when we’d won that battle we would have had time to regroup -”

“We wouldn’t have had that time! We'd've had to throw our men from one battle immediately to another after marching them the length of the entire bloody continent — twice! Hopefully now her precious Throne is a pile of molten metal it’ll distract her -”

“It was _my_ Throne!”

Sansa opened her mouth to argue but Daenerys turned to Jaime. “Lord Jaime. What size army does your sister have?”

Warily, he stepped forward. “As part of the marriage treaty with House Tyrell, House Lannister and House Tyrell would each provide a thousand soldiers to form a basic army for King’s Landing. The City Watch accounts for another three thousand or so, but they are hardly an army,” he shrugged. “They are poorly trained, and many are drunks, brutes, or cravens who joined for the promise of bread.”

“Could your sister attack us with that?”

Jaime clearly thought about it, and his shoulders slumped. “She could, but it would hardly be effective. It would also mean completely stripping the city of all it’s protections, and she wouldn’t do that. I know my sister, your Grace. She knows she can’t beat us with the men she has. I believe we would be safe from her.”

Daenerys nodded, and turned back to Sansa and held out her hand. “Your badge.”

“Your Grace -”

“Your. Badge.”

Slowly, Sansa unpinned the badge of office from her tunic, and handed it over.

“Go find a horse,” said Daenerys. “You’re riding with the supply. I don’t want to see you until we have taken Riverrun. And possibly not even then.”

* * *

_The Sixth Stitch_

In the end, the Battle for Riverrun hadn’t been much of a battle. Her mother’s uncle, the Blackfish, had taken the castle back from the Freys and had supply enough to withstand a siege for two years. Jaime Lannister had taken his forces to the Freys, and tricked them into thinking the Lannisters had come to support them.

They had not.

It was a fight barely long enough to be called a battle in the end, and it wasn’t long until Walder Frey’s sons were brought before Daenerys and her dragons.

Walder Frey himself, however, had managed to slip away in the fight, and neither son would answer where he was. There were a couple of decent trackers in their combined army, but before Daenerys could send any of them off Sansa slipped into the command tent, Lyanna at her heels.

“Your Grace,” said Sansa. “I believe I can help.”

“Are you a tracker, Lady Stark?” asked the Queen in a cool tone, not even looking up from the map of the area she was looking over. Jaime and Jon did look at her though, and smiled awkwardly.

“No, your Grace,” replied Sansa, carefully keeping her voice soft and even. “But Lyanna is.”

Daenerys looked up at that.

“She can match the pace of a horse, easily, and won’t need to keep stopping to check the trail like a human tracker would. She can do it, I know she can.”

The sounds of the army outside were muffled by the tent, and it was silent within. 

“Dany…” said Jon, and Daenerys sighed. 

“Very well, Lady Stark. Lyanna may join the hunt.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” said Sansa, and left the tent. She needed to find Bronn to guard her while she rode with Lyanna. She’d’ve preferred the Lady Brienne or Jon, but Daenerys was keeping her new cousin close, and as the other monarch, Jon was part of all of the councils and planning sessions that Daenerys was. Sansa had been impressed by how they worked together, though she had no idea if Jon had told Daenerys about his supposed lineage.

Bronn wasn’t hard to find, and although he grumbled at being pulled away from winning at cards against some Dornishmen, came willingly enough.

“What’dya need from me?”

“Keep watch. I’m...going away for a bit, and I need you to guard me.”

“Guard you? Where are you going?”

Sansa ignored him and ducked into her tent, holding the flap up pointedly for Bronn to follow her in.

He did, and started when Sansa dropped Lord Frey’s tunic on the ground and went to lie on her bed.

“Oh, is that what you wanted?” he said, moving towards her. “I’m not your husband, but the whores we shared said I was the better of the two of us.”

Lyanna moved from her corner until she was standing between Sansa and Bronn, her teeth bared and a growl in her throat.

“Nice doggy,” said Bronn as he backed away with his hands raised in surrender. “I was just joking.”

Sansa huffed a laugh at him. “I don’t require you to bed me, just guard me.” With that she reached out with her mind to Lyanna.

* * *

The mistress was back! This wolf was pleased. It had been a long time since the mistress had joined this wolf.

This wolf turned to check on the mistress on the bed, who was lying very still with her eyes wide open and very white.

The man moved towards the mistress to check her, and this wolf growled. The man had given this wolf treats in the past, but if this man hurt the mistress this wolf would gut him.

“Fucking freaky that is,” said the man, who then looked at Lyanna. “I don’t suppose you know where’s she’s gone?”

This wolf huffed, and grabbed the man’s sleeve to tug him over to a seat. This wolf pushed against the man until he was seated, then licked his face to make him stay.

 _Oh, why did you do that?_ asked mistress-in-head. _I would have been very pleased with my life if I didn’t know how Ser Bronn of the Blackwater tasted._

 _Treats!_ responded this wolf. _The man gives this wolf treats. And very nice scratches._

This wolf could feel the mistress grumbling, and moved out of the tent. _This wolf hunts?_

This wolf could feel the mistress’ approval. _Yes, my dear. We hunt. We hunt the man with this smell,_ she said, leading this wolf over to the clothing on the floor.

The clothing smelled of damp, and unhappiness, and old. This wolf nosed her way out of the tent and could smell the same damp, unhappiness and old on the wind. It was faint and confused, but there. This wolf trotted in the direction the scent was strongest. _This wolf hunts!_

* * *

There was a spoor of fresh horse dung on the path, and this wolf stopped to sniff it. _It’s still warm in the middle,_ said this wolf to the mistress. _The horse is young, and female, and tiring. This wolf should be able to catch her easily._

This wolf sped up, breaking into a series of short gallops intercut with brisk trots. Eventually, this wolf came across another pile of horse dung — this pile still soft and wet. A splash of horse sweat on the ground nearby told this wolf that the horse was nearly at the end of it’s abilities, and this wolf would catch it soon enough. This wolf topped the crest in the road, and saw a horse and rider below. This wolf let out a howl and bounded down the road, the man in sight. 

This wolf skirted around the horse and planted itself in the road, hackles up and teeth bared as the horse staggered to a halt. The whites of the horse’s eyes were clearly visible as the exhausted animal faced a direwolf not much smaller than herself, and when the man reached forward to strike the horse between the ears the horse decided she had had enough.

The horse threw the man forward where he rolled to a stop beneath this wolf’s feet, and the horse turned and ran away.

The man cried when this wolf lowered its head down to scent him. He smelled cold, and tired, and sick, and this wolf knew that a bite to the throat would finish him off.

 _We don’t want to kill him,_ said the mistress. _We need to take him back to the Queen. And to Jon. Alive._

This wolf grumbled, but the mistress stayed firm. So this wolf dodged the branch the man swung at this wolf with, and grabbed the man’s wrist instead. This wolf could smell the blood underneath the man’s skin, and twisted the wrist until the bones broke. The man let out a scream and dropped the branch, pissing himself at the same time.

The man was pleading, but this wolf could feel the mistress’ anger growing with every word, so this wolf didn’t pay the man any attention.

Instead, this wolf used her weight to push the man to the ground, where the man fell on his sore wrist and cried some more. This wolf grabbed the man by the ankle, and dragging this man beneath her, started to make the journey back to the camp.

He whined and trashed, but this wolf did not slow as this wolf went over some harsh rocks, and eventually the man’s complaints stopped and the smell of blood from his head increased.

The mistress was pleased at the smell, and this wolf trotted onwards.

* * *

With Riverrun taken and Lord Frey burned to a crisp, Sansa was free to resume her place at the front of the combined army with the Queen and her advisors, though she remained a-horse for now while Jon and Daenerys flew. Viserion still sought her out once they had made camp for the night though, and Sansa had learned to pitch her sleeping roll far away from the horses so the scent of the dragon wouldn’t panic them. 

Garlan had been the one to work out that putting blinders above the horses’ eyes, rather than to the sides, would stop them from panicking at the sight of the dragons above, though they couldn’t do much about the smell of them when they were in camp. The Dothraki horses were more used to the dragons and Lyanna and so were less skittish, and Sansa and Daenerys both hoped that in time the horses would realise they were not meant as dragon food.

It was a long trek from Riverrun to the Twins, however, and the great army was limited by the speed of the foot soldiers. The news of the fall of House Frey had outpaced them, and every town they passed more men joined them. It seemed Walder Frey had won no friends among the commonfolk of the Riverlands, who were more than happy to join the combined army alongside the Blackfish.

Sansa, Jaime, Brienne, and Garlan were discussing it one night in camp. Jon and Daenerys had gone with Oberyn and his daughter to dine with the Dornish part of their army — they were careful to spend at least one night with every faction of their army, getting to know the men who would be fighting for them. Who would likely be dying for them.

Idly, Sansa wondered what Daenerys would think of the spices the Dornish used — their dragon peppers were much hotter than anything they’d had in Meereen. Not to mention what Jon would think of them — she didn’t imagine they had many spices on The Wall. Then again, they both had dragonblood, so maybe they wouldn’t notice. Or possibly even like food so spicy it made the eater cry.

Looking at the slop in her own bowl, Sansa almost wished for some of those peppers herself. Then at least her food would taste of something other than...grey.

She noticed that Lord Jaime had barely touched his food, bent over a map with Brienne as he was, while Garlan looked on.

“At this rate, it’s going to take us a month to get to the Twins. Then it’s another two to Winterfell, then another one to The Wall,” Jaime frowned.

“It’s normally only a month from Winterfell to the Twins,” said Sansa. “At least, that’s how long it took us to coming south.”

Jaime shrugged. “We’re a bigger party now than we were then, and far more of us are on foot. Getting Cersei’s damned wheelhouse through the Neck was nearly impossible, and that was with the rest of the party on horseback and with using the King’s Writ to cover food wherever we went. This time we’ve got all of our supply with us, as well as several companies of foot. Even if we can treat with the Reeds, it’s still going to be a damned pain getting everyone through the swamp.”

“But what if we didn’t go through the swamp?” asked Sansa.

“Go around it?” Brienne asked. “There’s no decent harbour on either side of the Neck until you get to White Harbour — and by then we’re out of the worst of it. No, we’ll just have to push on through, and make the best of it.”

Sansa was thinking fast. “Lord Jaime, how far can a man march in a day?” 

“About 20 miles, in good health and fair conditions.”

“And a heavy wagon?”

“Closer to 25 miles, again with good conditions.”

“And a mounted rider can do 30, correct?”

“Yes, my lady,” Lord Jaime said, clearly puzzled. “Though as you mentioned earlier, the Dothraki can ride much faster when they need to.” 

“The dragons fly even faster.”

“But we don’t have dragons,” said Garlan. “Other than those three, of course. We have men.”

“But we could put the men on the dragons,” said Sansa, an idea forming in her mind.

“Are you mad?” asked Jaime.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Sansa. “The dragons are strong. They should be able to carry a hundred men or so each, easily.”

“Even with three hundred men on dragonback, that’s still a lot of the army left behind,” said Garlan.

“But what if they weren’t?” Sansa said, grabbing a stick to sketch out her idea on the ground. “Instead of taking a hundred men and flying with them all day, what if each dragon takes a hundred men and carries them as far ahead of the body of the army as they can within an hour, then puts them down? Those men start marching from there, and the dragons circle back and collect the next lot of three hundred, who have been marching all this time and are a bit closer. They take them ahead then fly back for the next lot, until the whole army has been moved. That way, all of the foot gets a bit of a rest and can therefore march for longer at a quicker pace, the horses and carts are able to move at their faster pace, and the whole army can move closer to 25 miles a day than 20. Maybe even closer to 30 if we really get it right.”

“It’s leapfrog with dragons,” said Garlan as he looked over Sansa’s diagram scratched into the dirt. The others looked at him curiously and he rolled his eyes. “Did none of you play leapfrog when you were younger? Jumping over each other’s backs?”

“My father would have flogged me for playing a game like that, even if I hadn’t squished Tyrion by jumping on him.”

“Galladon was dead.”

“Ladies don’t jump.”

“You all had sad childhoods,” declared Garlan with a shake of his head. “But it’s a good idea, Lady Sansa. It would certainly help us move faster, and from what your brother tells us, time is of the essence.”

 _It will also help us get further away from Cersei and any plans she might be hatching to chase us up the Kingsroad,_ Sansa thought, but didn’t say. Daenerys was still angry at her after Sansa’s actions in King’s Landing, but Sansa didn’t regret it. She’d had some of the worst times in her life in that room, and since she’d reduced it to a pile of rubble and cinders she’d found herself sleeping better at night.

Which pleased Lyanna, as Sansa tended to kick when she was waking up from a nightmare.

“I’ll draw up a neater copy of the diagram, Lord Jaime, and you can present it to the Queen,” said Sansa.

“It was your idea, Lady Stark. You should be the one to present it.”

Sansa picked up her bowl of slop, now gone stone cold. “The Queen is still distressed with me, sers. The idea would be better coming from one of you.” With a sad smile, she turned and walked away.

* * *

The Queen had been fascinated by the idea, and had suggested a harness be made for each dragon with slings on it for the men to sit in. Two days later they were ready to explain the plan to the men — with the mounted cavalry arranged in a semi-circle around the foot, ready to ride down any man who would rather run than ride a dragon.

Despite having a horse and therefore not really needing to ride a dragon, Jaime was the first one to board Drogon, followed by a company of his Red Cloaks. The Dornishmen and the Reachmen weren’t willing to let the Westermen show them up in anything, let alone in such an act of courage, and so they also scrambled for their assigned dragons. Daenerys had restored Viserion to Sansa, rightly understanding that with Jon on Rhaegal someone else would need to take the cream and gold dragon in hand, and so it was with joy that Sansa took to the air again.

It took a few days for them to get the rhythm right — in the end, some of the wagons of supply had to start forward each morning before the sun was fully up so as to be there to meet the men at the end of the day — but a semblance of order was gradually imposed on the process and in the end, the march that should have taken a long, slow month from Riverrun to the Twins was completed in two weeks.

And while the dragons could fly the men over the Green Fork of the Trident, the mounted knights and the supply was a different story. They needed that bridge — but they had murdered Lord Frey.

* * *

_The Seventh Stitch_

In the end, Jaime and Jon had ridden forward to treat with whoever the current Lord of the Crossing was. It turned out to be Lord Edwyn Frey, one of Walder Frey’s great-grandsons, a pale, slender man with a constipated look. Sansa did not think much of his pinched nose, lank dark hair, and cold thin smile — nor did she think much of his glee upon hearing that this great-grandfather and Black Walder were dead.

His obsequiousness was grating, but he was willing to let them cross, and to shelter at the Twins and resupply.

“We cannot ride north with you,” he sniveled. “The best of our army was at Riverrun, and we need time to rebuild.”

 _He knows full well we didn’t kill even ten men from their army!_ thought Sansa angrily. She looked at Jon, who shook his head.

“We understand,” said Jon. “Which is why we will not take more men from you, Lord Frey. Instead, we will take your wife, and your daughter, as a bond for your good behaviour.”

“If you rise against us, in any way, you will never see them again,” agreed Daenerys. “And we will burn House Frey to the ground.”

His constipated look stiffened, but Lord Frey capitulated. When they left the Twins, it was with Janyce Hunter and little Walda Frey firmly ensconced in their camp, guarded day and night by the Unsullied. They also took with them almost all the stores held in the Twins — the Freys would survive the winter, but it would be a lean one. The Blackfish had wanted to burn the Twins to the ground, but Sansa talked him down. Burning the castles could damage the bridge, and they needed that bridge.

(Between them, however, they did plot out where two or three additional bridges over the Green Fork could be placed so as to remove the necessity of crossing at the Twins. Once these bridges were built, they each thought to themselves, we can burn the Twins to the ground — and all the Freys with them.)

As the great army crossed, Daenerys’ dragons arranged themselves on the two castles of the Twins and on the tower in the middle of the bridge, their great heads swinging down to watch the movement of men and supply with interest. In full view of Lord Frey, they snaked their heads down and each neatly plucked a cow each from the herd as it was crossing, blood and bones raining down upon the bridge as they tore into their meals.

Sansa was pleased to see Lord Frey pale at the display, and when the army had crossed the dragons took to the air, roaring fire in a show of strength. The weight of the dragons pushing off from the castles caused a lot of the masonry to fall into the Green Fork, leaving the castles with a ragged look and the new Lord Frey with a constant reminder of the might of the Targaryens and the fury of the North.

“That was easier than expected,” said Sansa to Oberyn as they watched his men board Viserion for the first dragonflight of the day.

The Dornishman shrugged. “Even House Frey is running low on heirs,” he said. “When we said there was a dearth of eligible heirs for you to marry due to the war we meant it. The Houses of Westeros can barely support another war — we've lost too many heirs, and too many soldiers. When we lose soldiers, we press farmers into service, and then we struggle to feed ourselves. Had your brother not convinced us of the threat, we would not be here.”

Sansa frowned as she boarded Viserion. She hadn't realised the situation was so dire, and she wondered how they would feed their people when the battles were won — especially since the dragons ate so much.


	11. The North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aemma Royce is my own invention — in the show, Yohn Royce only has sons, both of whom are dead. Aemma is a similar age to Oberyn, I’ve decided.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S06E07 ‘The Broken Man’, S08E01 ‘Winterfell’, S08E02 ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’, S08E04 ‘The Last of the Starks’, as well as Chapter 50 from _A Game of Thrones_.

_The Eighth Stitch_

In the end, it took them just under a month to get to Winterfell from the Twins. They’d perfected the leapfrog technique by then, and made it from the Twins to the beginning of the swamps of the Neck in only two weeks. 

Lord Jaime, Sansa, Jon, and Daenerys stood on the last rise before the Neck, looking down at where the wide Kingsroad dwindled into a narrow causeway, while behind them Oberyn, Obara, Garlan, and Brienne situated the army for the night. 

Sansa didn’t remember the causeway being that narrow before, but she did remember her sister. _When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion!_ she could remember Arya saying, her voice high with excitement.

Sansa reached out and took Jon’s hand, smiling sadly.

“Arya loved travelling through here,” she said in explanation. 

He squeezed her hand in response, and turned back to look down the road. 

“We won’t get through there without the help of House Reed,” said Jaime. “And no man or raven can find their castle unless they want him to.”

“Lyanna might be able to track them?” asked Sansa when Daenerys continued to look worried. Her direwolf had fallen into the habit of roaming around their army, but always came when Sansa wanted her.

“We shouldn’t need her,” said Jon. “It seems House Reed has come to us.”

Indeed they had — down below a group of men and women were emerging from the swamp, bows held down by their sides in a clear show of peace. One of them put their hand up and waved, and Jon responded with his own wave before leading them down the slope.

“King Jon,” said a crannogwoman with a smile. “We've been expecting you.”

“Lady Meera,” said Jon as he clasped her hand in a respectful shake. “I was hoping to find you here. Is your father well?”

Meera's smile dimmed. “As well as he could be with the news I brought home, but it is not the first time House Reed has undertaken dangerous work alongside House Stark.”

At that Sansa saw Jaime start as he realised who this woman was, but the Lord of Lannister kept his silence.

Jon beckoned them forward. “Lady Meera Reed of Greywater Watch, allow me to introduce you to Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains.”

 _Clever of him not to include the 'Queen of the Seven Kingdoms’ part of her title,_ Sansa thought. From the look Daenerys sent Jon it was clear that the Dragon Queen was displeased at the simplification of her titles but wasn't prepared to make a scene over it. _Of course, we are in the North now. And while the other Kingdoms may be willing to accept her rule, it wasn't too long ago that the North fought for their independence. We have our own King now._ Not for the first time, Sansa felt a sense of unease over her divided loyalties.

“And Jaime Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and general of our armies,” Jaime swept into a neat bow, the dragon and direwolf on his chest plate glittering in the sun, “and my sister, Sansa Stark, Virzeth Veri, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

 _Interesting,_ thought Sansa as she made her curtsey. _Daenerys gets less titles, yet he gives my Dothraki name. It seems there are more politics at work here in the North than I'd expected._

It made sense when she thought about it — Northerners were prickly and proud. Through downplaying Daenerys’ claim on the Iron Throne and enhancing her own reputation Jon was sending a message to his bannermen that he hadn't capitulated to the Dragon Queen — and that he recognised the strength of the North. _He’s not the boy he used to be,_ she thought, pride tinged with sadness. _I guess none of us are the children we were before Father went south._

“The light is fading,” said Meera after she'd greeted them. “My father and I invite yourselves and up to four of your senior advisors to spend the night in Greywater Watch. We would offer to house more but our castle is small. My father has a few things he'd like to discuss with you before you ride north King Snow, though on the morrow our army will match with you.”

“Our thanks, Lady Meera,” said Jaime. “We would not be able to make our way through the Neck without you.”

The look Meera gave him was unimpressed. “Even with us you might not make it through. The Neck is an unwieldy place, even for those of us born to it.”

The sound of a large creature crashing through the swamp towards them caused the crannogmen and women to whirl around, arrows on their bows as they shifted into defensive positions in front of Jon and Daenerys as Sansa and Jaime drew their own swords.

They stood at readiness until the creature plunged out of the swamp, covered in mud with multiple tentacles swirling around it. 

“Draw!” snapped Meera as Jon drew his sword and pushed Daenerys behind him.

 _She really should be armed,_ thought Sansa. _On the ground and without her dragons Daenerys can't defend herself. And where are the dragons?_ Normally they were the first to react if something threatened their mother, but they were still lying in gentle repose on the ridge behind them, happily munching on yet more cows.

A thought from a brain other than hers nudged at Sansa.

“Hold! Hold!” yelled Sansa as she realised where the thought came from — and who the ‘monster’ was.

The ‘monster’ stopped and gave a shake, sending much of the mud and all of the ‘tentacles’ flying, so that what was left was the shape of a very muddy, stick and leaf covered direwolf, a few vines trailing behind her and a dead lizard-lion hanging from her mouth.

“Lady Meera, it's safe. It is merely my direwolf, Lyanna,” explained Sansa as she sheathed her sword.

“Your direwolf is named Lyanna?” asked Meera as she and her archers relaxed their bows and stood. “She's going to be insufferable when she finds out,” she muttered, and Sansa again wondered who this Lyanna Mormont was whom inspired that reaction from everyone who met her direwolf.

Her Lyanna happily trotted over, tail wagging, and stopped between Sansa and Daenerys before thoroughly shaking, covering the two women with a thick layer of swamp mud.

Not bothering to hide her grin, Lady Meera suggested that maybe their officers should draw lots so that they could make their way into the castle where they could bathe and change into clean clothes.

Oberyn and Garlan drew the short straws to stay with the army, while Lady Brienne and Lady Obara were to spend the night in Greywater Watch.

Sansa hid a smile at the sight Lady Meera made, her slight frame dwarfed by both Lady Obara and Lady Brienne, but the crannogwoman's handling of her bow showed that she was skilled with at least one weapon, if not more.

Before they left for the night, Meera stopped and frowned down the road behind them.

“Is something the matter?” asked Sansa, looking forward to her bath as yet another glob of mud slid down her back.

“No, just...the greenseers told us the Vale rode with you. Yet I see none of their banners with your army, and none of your officers hail from there.” She shrugged. “Then again, the greenseers are odd sometimes. They like to keep their secrets to themselves.”

* * *

After a bath, clean clothes, and a good night’s rest in an actual bed, Sansa felt much better about life. Their army was making good time, and by all maps and known history of Westeros, they were in the North. It was the closest Sansa had been to home in many years and her heart ached to hurry everyone along. She fancied she could smell snow on the air, and she wanted to feel the cold of the winds around Winterfell tugging at her hair once again.

But first they had to get the army there. Howland Reed had disappeared into his solar with Jon while Sansa and Daenerys were bathing, and when they emerged Reed had sent out a series of ravens. From the top of Greywater Watch, Sansa could see the crannogs floating into place through the early morning mists — the crannogwomen and men maneuvering their floating islands to bolster the causeway, doubling it in width. 

_They probably can’t support the weight of the carts, but the mounted knights at least can ride on them, meaning more of us can cross at once,_ she thought, blowing over the top of her mug of tea to cool it. She turned to look over their army, ranged on the last solid ground before the swamp, and her eyes caught sunlight flashing off metal in the distance.

She dropped her mug and bolted down the tower. _Cersei!_

* * *

_The Ninth Stitch_

Sansa, Jon, and Daenerys raced for their dragons as Jaime and the other commanders rode hard for the new front of the army. They weren’t prepared for a rear-guard action — they’d moved so much faster than any other army in Westerosi history that they hadn’t thought they’d need to guard against one.

 _Stupid little girl!_ thought Sansa to herself, and vowed that they would not become so complacent again. _But how in the Seven Hells did Cersei get here so fast?_

They were _months_ away from King’s Landing by road, and there were no decent bays south of the Neck — White Harbour was to the north, and Seagard was on the west coast of the continent, not the east. The angle of approach indicated that this army came from the Vale, but the mountains of the Vale made Gulltown an improbable choice and Coldwater Burn wasn’t deep enough to harbour troop transports.

The approaching army halted in response to the dragons’ warning jets of flame, while beneath them their own army boiled into action.

As previously agreed, when faced with an unknown enemy Daenerys and Jon were to remain aloft on Drogon and Rhaegal while Sansa and Viserion were to land and assess the threat alongside Lord Jaime. Seeing Jaime and the first units of Stormlords in position, Sansa guided Viserion down to land in the empty space to Jaime’s right. As she did, she looked closer at the army — and realised this wasn’t Cersei at all.

Four horsemen stood firm at the front of the army, and when Viserion didn’t immediately burn them to a crisp, the middle rider unfurled a white banner and rode forward.

“I am Podrick of House Payne!” he called, and with that Sansa scrambled down from Viserion.

“Pod?” she yelled, running towards him.

“Lady Sansa!” he dropped the white banner and raced towards her, as did one of the other riders. The remaining two riders came forward at a more sedate trot, but Sansa hardly noticed as Pod vaulted off his horse and seized her in a tight hug, lifting her clean off the ground.

“My lady!”

“Pod! You’re alive!” she beamed. “And you’ve grown so tall!”

“You’ve grown so...pointy,” he said, indicating her weapons, and blushed when he inadvertently gestured to her chest. 

The other horse slid to a stop beside them and Aly tumbled off, straight into Sansa’s arms. “My lady!”

“Aly!”

The two redheads clung to each other and began to sob, while Pod stood by with a fond smile on his face and Jaime motioned for the army behind him to stand down. Drogon and Rhaegal spiraled down and discharged their riders, while Brienne of Tarth came up behind Jaime to see what was happening and then pushed past him at a run, crashing into Pod with a clang of armour.

After a few moments, the hugs had not separated, and it was only Daenerys letting out a loud cough behind them that brought the group to their senses.

Brienne stopped pounding Pod on the back and stepped to the side, while Sansa dashed her tears from her face and turned to face her Queen, unapologetic about how blotchy her face must be. _It’s a good idea, her mother had said, to learn how to cry on the inside, not the outside. Better for pale complexions like ours,_ she remembered. At the moment, she didn’t care. 

“Your Grace, your Grace, may I present Alayne Stone and Podrick Payne, true friends of mine. Aly, Pod, this is Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Jon Snow, my brother and King in the North.”

Pod made a very serviceable bow while Aly dipped into an elegant curtsey.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, your Graces. However, the Lady Sansa got something wrong — I am Alayne Payne now, not Stone.” The young couple joined hands and beamed at each other, and Sansa was filled with joy for her friends.

“And this -” Aly gestured behind them, “is Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, and Lady Aemma Royce, the oldest child and heir to Lord Royce.”

“I know Lord Royce well,” said Jon as he came forward to greet the new arrivals. “His command of the Knights of the Vale was instrumental in defeating the Boltons, and he has provided much wise counsel in his time at Winterfell. He will be pleased to see you.”

The Lady nodded to them, her bronze hair braided into a neat coronet. “It will be a pleasure to see my father again, and to discharge his ward back into his care,” she said, indicating Robin. “I do not have the skills to continue to train Lord Robin myself, and our training master, well…”

She trailed off, and Sansa raked an evaluating look over her cousin. He must have been nearly 16 years of age, she reckoned, however he didn’t have the look of a warrior about him, and was staring off at the sky with a distant look on his face.

Still, he was her cousin, and so he was welcome here. She sent a runner to fetch their great-uncle Brynden, and greeted her cousin before looking at confusion as to the people gathered behind them.

They were a rough and tumble lot, but had crept closer since the parley had started. With a shock, Sansa recognised one of them.

“Chella? Daughter of Cheyk?”

“Sansa, daughter of Catelyn!” roared the Hillswoman, grabbing Sansa into a hug. “We hear there is a fight to be had, and your half-man still owes us a decent one!”

* * *

_The Final Stitch_

Tyrion stood on the battlements of Winterfell, craning his head to watch the three dragons fly overhead in the cold morning light. He listened to the ragged cheers rising from the village, and he knew Sansa’s plan had worked.

She had gathered an army from across the Seven Kingdoms and brought them to fight the dead — and had come home to Winterfell at last.

Squinting through a spyglass Tyrion saw her riding alongside Jon and Daenerys at the front of the army — Sansa in grey, Daenerys in the middle in white, and Jon at the other side in black. Sansa’s hair shone in the cold light of the north, and even from this distance Tyrion could see that she held herself strong and tall — yet smiled and nodded at the people she knew, the people who had known her as a girl before she’d gone south.

They were at the front of the army, and behind them were hundreds of banners. Jon’s white direwolf and Daenerys’ red dragon were in the lead, of course, but behind them was the rose of the Tyrells, the sun and spear of the Martells, the fish of the Tullys, the star and sword of the Daynes, the silver eagle of the Mallisters, the grapes of the Redwynes, the black nightingales of the Carons, the maelstrom of the Wyldes, the black knight of the Risleys, the suns and moons of the Tarths, and among hundreds of others: the roaring golden lion of Lannister.

He ran down the stairs from the walls of the castle and took his place at the front of the group who were waiting to receive the king and queen — the lords of the North and the Vale, as well as the smallfolk of Winterfell. He eased into his spot between Bran and Lyanna, and held his breath as the soldiers bearing Jon’s and Daenerys’ banners entered the castle and stood to the side. 

It was Sansa who entered first, and seeing Bran, kicked her horse into a canter for all of three steps to get to her brother that little bit faster. She dismounted as someone came forward to take her horse and threw her arms around Bran, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“Look at you,” she said. “Oh, Bran, look at you. You look just like father! And Rickon!” she reached over and grabbed Rickon, pulling him into her arms as well. “You’re so tall! I thought you were Robb for a minute there!” she pulled back and ruffled his hair, then pulled him back into her arms and kissed him on the forehead. “Jon told me you were alive, but to see it — oh, Bran, Rickon -” she cried, tears spilling from her eyes as she pulled her brothers close to her again.

“Your Grace,” said Lord Glover as Jon came up to greet them, and Sansa whirled to pull Jon into their hug as well. 

Lady Lyanna took control of the horses and men entering the courtyard, helped by Lord Glover and some of the others, everyone tactfully averting their eyes and giving the Starks a few moments together. Tyrion went to join Daenerys, who was having her own reunion with Ser Jorah, and nodded at the Starks.

“Apologies for the delay, your Grace,” he said, and Daenerys shook her head with a sad smile.

“Nonsense, Lord Tyrion. Family comes first, always,” said the Queen.

They watched as the family reluctantly disengaged from each other and slowly approached, giving the Starks time to regain their composure. 

“This is clever,” said Sansa, her fingers brushing over the sides of Bran’s chair. 

“It’s the same as the one Daeron Targaryen built for his crippled nephew, one hundred and twenty years ago. I liked that one.”

Sansa looked puzzled by Bran’s comment, but turned to introduce Daenerys to her brothers as the queen approached. “Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, my brothers — Brandon and Rickon Stark.”

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, my lords,” Daenerys said with a smile. “The north is as beautiful as your brother and sister have claimed.”

Rickon blushed to look upon Daenerys, but managed to stammer, “Winterfell is yours, your Grace.”

A yip was the only warning they got before Lyanna, who had disappeared to sniff at the exterior walls of Winterfell came bounding into the courtyard, startling most of the gathered lords. 

“Lyanna!” snapped Sansa, clearly hoping to stave off the worst of her direwolf’s predilection for mischief, causing Lady Lyanna to start beside Tyrion.

“Yes, my lady?” said the girl, her tone only barely this side of challenging, and Sansa turned to look at her with a puzzled look on her face.

“I meant Lyanna, my direwolf,” explained Sansa, her hand buried into Lyanna’s neck ruff to hold her in place. “You must be Lyanna Mormont, the Lady of Bear Island. I remember when you were born, and named for my aunt. It was said she was a great beauty. I’m sure you will be too, and your cousin will have many offers for your hand. I know him well — we both came from Meereen with Queen Daenerys.”

“I gathered that, seeing as how you disappeared from Westeros years ago and came back when a foreign queen invaded our shores. I’m ten-and-two, Lady Stark, not stupid. My uncle sold men into slavery, and we no longer accept him as part of House Mormont. He will have no say in whose suit I will accept — if I chose to accept any suit at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, your Grace,” she nodded to Jon and pointedly ignored Daenerys, “someone will need to get bread and salt sorted for these people, and since Winterfell doesn’t have a proper lady, someone has to do it.”

With a final glare at Sansa, Lady Lyanna whirled and stalked away.

“She’s normally much nicer than that,” said Tyrion into the silence as they all watched the little figure disappear into the castle, the castle servants following her. 

Suddenly a blur of fur and hair came flying at them from the side and launched itself at Jon. Tyrion could see Sansa and the others who had ridden with the army reach for their weapons, but he placed his hand on her arm. “Hold, my lady. It’s a friend.”

The blur had stilled and turned into Tormund, who was enthusiastically thumping Jon on the back. “Little crow! It’s been so long, I thought we’d never see you again. That you’d gotten sad thinking about how small your prick was and walked off a cliff in despair. The big woman’s with you?”

“Aye, Lady Brienne is with us. With an army at her back.”

Tormund grinned, unrepentant. “Then I’ll just have to be at her front. Isn’t a hardship.”

Jon shook his head and pulled his friend into a hug, while both Daenerys and Sansa sent puzzled looks at Tyrion. 

He stepped forward, and introduced them. “Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, and Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, allow me to introduce Tormund Giantsbane of the Free Folk.”

Tormund looked over Jon’s shoulder, interested. “Your sister? Interesting hair. Reminds me of Ygritte.”

Jon grimaced, and the look Sansa and Daenerys shared made Tyrion very glad they had never ganged up on him. 

“Welcome home, Lady Stark,” said Tormund with a nod. “Nice to have another touched by fire around the place. And the dragons must be yours, your Grace,” he continued. “Aye, they’ll be useful in burning those dead fuckers to death. As lovely as it is to see your pretty face, King Crow, I’ve got a beauty to see to.”

Whistling, he left the courtyard, and Jaime piped up from behind them, “Who is he talking about?”

Tyrion didn’t know what to make of the look on Jaime’s face. It almost seemed like he was jealous, but...Jaime? Jealous of Tormund? It didn’t seem likely.

“We don’t have time for all this,” interrupted Bran. “The Night King is coming. The Wall still stands, but the dead march upon it and it will not be enough to stop them.”

“How long do we have?” asked Jon.

“You must be north of the Wall a month from now,” said Bran. “Lannister!”

Still looking in the direction Tormund had wandered, Jaime froze, and slowly turned to face Bran. “My lord. I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

“You weren’t sorry then. You were protecting your family.”

“I’m not that person anymore.”

“Aren’t you?”

Bran’s eyes flickered white, as did Jaime’s. They stood there, their eyes pale for several long breaths, before their gazes cleared. Bran’s expression hadn’t changed, but Jaime was whiter than the snow in Winterfell’s courtyard. 

“The things you do for love,” said Bran, and gestured at the maester standing behind him who wheeled him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, torturing Jaime is fun, okay? And as much as I love Sansa, her utter fumble when meeting Lyanna for the first time was too funny not to include.


	12. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sansa of House Stark comes here to wed. A woman grown and flowered, she comes to ask the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S07E07 ‘The Dragon and the Wolf’, S08E01 ‘Winterfell’, S08E02 ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’. The story about Jon in the crypts is from chapter 50 of _A Game of Thrones_.

“Your Grace,” said Lyanna as she stood. “Except you’re not, are you? You left Winterfell a king and came back a-”

“A king,” said Jon. “I am still a king, my lady. That has not changed. But what I am is not important.”

“Not important? We named you King in the North.”

Many of the gathered men sounded like they agreed with her. Sansa looked around the room, seeing faces she remembered from her childhood in the North as well as wildlings and men of the Vale, and saw discontent with the situation. She was sharing the high table with Jon, Daenerys, Rickon, and Bran, but their closest advisors were nearby.

And to the Northern lords, it looked like their closest advisors were from the Westerlands, the Reach, the Stormlands, Dorne, and across the Narrow Sea. Meera and Howland Reed were the only Northerners counted amongst their advisors, and from a political standpoint, it looked bad.

“You did, my lady,” said Jon, his voice carrying above the crowd. “And that is why I did not bend the knee.”

Silence fell at that pronouncement.

“I did not bend the knee to Queen Daenerys of House Stormborn. The North remains an independent kingdom, just as it was when I went south.” 

“Then how do you explain the dragons?” asked one of the other lords as Lyanna slowly took her seat.

“When I left Winterfell I told you we needed allies, or we would die,” said Jon as he rose to his feet. “And I have brought those allies home to fight alongside us.”

“Out of the goodness of their hearts?” a Northern lord tried to whisper to his neighbour, but unfortunately for him, sound travelled easily in Winterfell’s Great Hall.

“No,” said Jon. “There was a price, and for the North it is a price I would pay many times over.” He cleared his throat. “In exchange for her aid in fighting the Night King, I have promised my hand in marriage to Daenerys Targaryen.”

Not a sound could be heard until a roar of laughter came from Tormund. “Only you, King Crow, only you. I always said you were prettier than you had any right to be, and it seems even queens can’t resist you!”

There was laughter around the rest of the room, and Jon just shrugged. “I won’t admit that it won’t exactly be a hardship,” he said with a quick look at Daenerys, who raised her eyebrows in return. “But the fact remains — I did not bend the knee.”

“Not in that way!” snorted Tormund, causing more laughter to spill around the room. 

Jon just shrugged and regained his seat, a blush staining his cheeks, while Daenerys stood from hers. “I’ve not come to conquer the North,” she said. “I’ve come to save the North. After the war against the dead is won, King Jon and I will wed. That was the terms of our agreement. King Jon will retain his title and independent control over the North, with the Lady Sansa standing as his heir to the North. Our children will inherit the Iron Throne and the Targaryen name — and hers shall inherit the North and the name of Stark. The North will become a principality, just as Dorne is, ruled by Sansa Stark as the Winter Princess.”

“What if the other lands want to become principalities as well?” asked one of the Valemen, a cunning look on his face.

“Then they shall have to negotiate for it,” said Daenerys with a cool smile. “But as both Dorne and the North have become principalities through marriage, you may have to wait a few generations for the Vale to have a suitable heir to offer a suitable Targaryen.”

The gathered lords nodded and more than a few looked thoughtful or like they could plan a suitable heir from this very room. Although Sansa could see that the situation could cause problems in the future — rebellions had become depressingly common in Westeros lately — the threat of the dragons should be enough to keep most lords in line for a while yet.

“Speaking of Targaryens,” Daenerys continued, “I was overjoyed to learn when I arrived in Westeros that despite what I was told, some members of my family do still live. I am distant kin to the Martells of Dorne, of course,” she nodded at Oberyn and Obara, “but I have two closer cousins — Lady Brienne of Tarth, and our cousin Gendry Smith of House Tarth. They are of Rhaella’s line — and in the case of Lady Brienne, also of Ser Duncan the Tall’s.”

Brienne extricated herself from Tormund’s arm, and she and Gendry moved to stand before the high table.

“I hereby declare my cousin, Lady Brienne of Tarth, to be my lawful heir. Since everyone has told me I’m not allowed to make one of my dragons my heir,” she said with a small pout.

 _Nicely done, my Queen,_ thought Sansa. _You’ve got them right where we want them._

“To Lady Brienne of Tarth!” said Jon, standing and lifting his goblet high. “To Daenerys Targaryen, to the living, and to the North!”

“The North!” the gathered lords yelled as they grabbed their goblets and surged to their feet. “The Living! The North! The Living!”

* * *

“Jon — a moment?”

The lords and ladies gathered in the Great Hall were gradually dispersing, and Jon looked over to where Sam was standing by Bran. They led him to his father’s — to Ned’s — solar. He supposed it was Sansa’s solar now, technically. She’d disappeared off with Daenerys after the feast, the Queen mentioning something about wanting the grand tour.

He looked at Sam and Bran, and wondered what two of the smartest people he knew wanted to tell him.

And he dreaded what he thought it was going to be.

“You can’t marry Daenerys,” said Sam. “Bran and I worked it out. I have a High Septon’s diary — Gilly was the one who found it, really. Bran has...whatever Bran has. He saw it.”

“Sam…”

“Your mother was Lyanna Stark. And your father, your real father, was Rhaegar Targaryen. You’ve never been a bastard — you’re Aegon Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne. I know it’s a lot to take in, but -”

Jon sighed. “I know.”

“You know?” asked Sam.

“Lord Jaime worked it out too. He knew Rhaegar, and had access to the Kingsguard records. He discovered a puzzle — why were three members of the Kingsguard stationed at a tower in Dorne, far from the rest of the royal family? He dug around a bit, and worked out that the timeline didn’t work for me to be Ned’s son. Howland Reed confirmed it — he was with father at that tower.”

“Ned Stark wasn’t your father.”

“He was. In every way that matters, he was. I may be from Rhaegar’s seed, but Ned was the one who raised me. Who sheltered me, cared for me, and taught me what was right and wrong. When I think of my father, it’s not a Targaryen prince I think of. It’s Ned.”

A smile flitted across Bran’s face. “He loved you.”

“And I loved him.”

“You can’t marry Daenerys,” said Sam. “She’s your aunt.”

Jon sighed. “I have to. It was the price for her aid. I keep my word, Sam, as well as I can. You know that.”

“But she’s your aunt.”

“We’re Targaryens. She grew up thinking she’d marry her brother.”

“You didn’t though,” said Sam. “You grew up thinking you wouldn’t marry at all. And you don’t marry within family in the North.”

“Actually,” Bran said with a shrug. “We do. Our grandfather Rickard and grandmother Lyarra were cousins. Further back, Jonnel and Edric Stark both married their nieces. The Targaryens married brother to sister, while the rest of us married a bit further out, but still. I know the history of all of the houses, and I can assure that all of them have cousins marrying cousins. Including House Tarly.”

“Your claim is stronger,” said Sam after a pause to process that information. “She’s the fifth child of a king; you’re the oldest son of the Crown Prince. Your claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than hers.”

“I don’t want it!” snapped Jon. “I never wanted it. I never wanted any of this — the only thing I ever wanted for myself was to be a ranger in the Night’s Watch. I didn’t want to be a steward, or a traitor, or the Lord Commander, or King in the North. And I don’t want to be a Targaryen.”

“But you are,” said Bran. “You are all of those things.”

Jon slumped back against the desk. “Aye, I am. And all the whining and stamping my foot in the world won’t change that, but by the gods I wish it would. Things were so much simpler when I was just Ned Stark’s motherless bastard.”

“The past is set in stone, that’s why it seems simpler,” said Bran, his eyes far away. “But the future is not fixed yet. There are many paths before you, Aegon Targaryen. Paths of light, and of shadow. Of fire, and of ice. Of elegance and grace, and of madness and pain.”

He peered at Jon. “Which path will you chose, Aegon?”

“It’s Jon. And I won’t make any choice until the Night King is defeated.”

Bran shrugged. “That too is a choice.”

* * *

Sansa led Daenerys down the steps. “A lot of Winterfell is underground, your Grace. The ground down here is cold — almost frozen, even when summer is at its hottest. So this is where our store rooms are.” 

She opened the door to their left, and the Lady of Winterfell and the Dragon Queen peered in. The light from their torches didn’t show much, but what they could see through the gloom indicated that the stores of Winterfell were packed, ready for a long winter.

“Rickon told me that they started laying in stores as soon as they took the castle back in preparation for winter, but the Boltons had started to build up supply while they were in power. Ramsay may have been a madman, but his father knew what needed to be done. We understand winter up here, your Grace, and what is needful to survive it.”

They closed the door, and Sansa turned to head back up the stairs.

“What’s through there?” asked Daenerys, pointing at the other door. “More food storage?”

Sansa giggled. “No, your Grace, the opposite. It’s the family crypt. Where House Stark buries our dead. Down there,” she gestured to where the floor turned into winding stone steps spiraling down into the dark earth, “is where the most ancient Kings of the North are entombed. Some of the lowest levels have collapsed, and we never go down there.”

She opened the door and lit the torch inside. “But here is where House Stark is buried now. Everyone from Torrhen Stark onwards is here — he’s the line between the Kings of Winter and the Lords of Winterfell.”

Sansa and Daenerys entered the crypt and lit the torches as they walked down the long corridor, granite pillars two-by-two standing firm beneath the vaulted ceiling and the tombs and statues of the dead lining the walls.

“The statues are of the Lords of Winterfell,” Sansa explained, seeing Daenerys looking curiously at them. “The longswords across each lord's lap keeps their spirit within the crypt.”

“So there aren’t any statues of women?”

Sansa smiled sadly. “There’s one.” She led her Queen further into the crypt to where three statues were grouped, snarling direwolves at each of their feet. “My father,” she said as she gestured to the central figure, “and his brother and sister, Brandon and Lyanna.”

Daenerys stared at her statue for a long time. “My brother Rhaegar,” she said, and trailed off. She pressed her lips together and Sansa could see tears welling in her eyes. “Everyone told me he was decent and kind. That he liked to sing, and gave money to poor children, and brought light and laughter everywhere he went. Viserys told me, and later so did Ser Barristan and Lord Varys. Yet he raped her, and killed her.”

Sansa tried very hard to keep her face blank. _I could tell her now, but...it’s Jon’s secret. It’s his secret, and it’s his to tell._ “Your Grace…”

Daenerys stepped forward and lit the candle in Lyanna’s palm before bowing her head in prayer. Sansa looked at the gentle likeness of her aunt and held her tongue. _It’s not my place._ She offered her own prayers, to the old gods and the new, that her and her siblings would not take their places here in the crypt for many years.

“I suppose you and your siblings will be buried here when the time comes?” asked Daenerys, her voice sounding hoarse. 

“We will, your Grace,” said Sansa. “My father and his siblings were the latest tombs to be used and sealed. As you can see, there are many more waiting for us and our children and our children’s children. We used to play here as children ourselves,” she continued, trying to sound more cheerful. “Years ago, when Bran had just learned to walk and Rickon hadn’t even been born yet, Robb brought us all down here to show us our tombs. But Old Nan had told us that there were spiders and rats down here as big as hounds, and I didn’t want to come. When we got to about where we’re standing now, a spirit came out of that tomb there, pale white and moaning for blood.”

Daenerys’ eyes were wide as she looked at the open tomb, their torches not casting much light inside it.

“I shrieked and ran for my life, while Bran cried and clung to Robb. But Arya — Ayra just hauled back and punched the spirit, who let out a mighty yell and doubled over. It was Jon, you see, covered in flour. He and Robb had come up with the plan between them, and it took me weeks to forgive them.”

She and Daenerys laughed, before the Queen sobered again. “Jon will lie here, won’t he, even though he’s a bastard.”

Sansa nodded. “He’s King in the North. This is his place.”

Daenerys looked around. “He deserves more than cold darkness.”

Sansa bristled at that description. “He is a Stark of Winterfell. This is his place, surrounded by his family. If we win this war against the dead he has agreed to go south to be your consort, but when he dies, his bones will come home. As Lady of Winterfell, as the Winter Princess, it will be my duty, and that of my children, to make sure his bones are here, and that his likeness is carved in stone alongside a likeness of Ghost. This is how we mourn, your Grace. Targaryens might burn, but not Starks. Never Starks!”

Her voice had risen to a shout by the end, and her words echoed around the chamber.

“Very well, Lady Stark,” said Daenerys. “If it should fall to me, I will ensure that your brother comes home. If I may, can I please spend some time down here? Alone?”

“This is a Stark place…” began Sansa, but upon seeing the look on Daenerys’ face Sansa felt the fight leave her. “Of course, your Grace.”

As Sansa left the crypt, she looked back. Daenerys Targaryen was carefully lighting the candles on Ned Stark’s tomb, tears shining on her cheeks.

* * *

 _What a difference a few hours makes,_ thought Tyrion as he stood on the battlements. This was where he had been this morning, watching dragons fly overhead and an army of allies march towards them. The castle behind him had been mostly empty then — most of their fighters had already left to set up defences north of The Wall, where Bran had told them they would make their stand. Their lords and leaders had waited in Winterfell for the coming army, but that wasn’t enough men to fill a castle the size of Winterfell.

Now the castle was full of men and women, making last-minute preparations, while the greatest army in Westerosi history filled the plains around Winterfell as far as the eye could see. Tomorrow they would begin their journey to The Wall, and for many of them, their death.

He took a long drink of the wine he’d taken from the Great Hall, and watched as Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon spiraled and danced in the air above. The light and dark heads of Jon and Daenerys walked through the army with their commanders by their sides, checking in with the men and providing them with living hope in the face of an unknown army, before Rhaegal and Drogon came down to meet them. The King and Queen flew off, and Viserion did not join them. Instead, the great cream and gold dragon banked low over Winterfell, and landed in the godswood.

Curious to see a dragon up close once again, Tyrion made his way to the godswood, only to find the bulk of Viserion filling nearly every available spot that was free of trees. Tyrion had to clamber over the tip of Viserion’s tail to even get in the gate, and discovered that the dragon was curled up before the heart tree, his great head resting beside Sansa’s knee.

Sansa was sitting underneath the heart tree, the red of its leaves matching her hair, with a dragon at one side, her direwolf at her feet, and...a basket of mending on the other side?

 _That can’t be right. She’s the Lady of Winterfell! Ladies don’t do the mending,_ he thought as he hailed her and approached. _They do fancy needlepoint, don’t they?_

But as he got closer, he saw that the Lady of Winterfell was indeed doing the mending. She had a basket of rough tunics beside them, and was patching them and stitching up the holes with neat, almost invisible stitches.

“Would you like a hand, my lady?” he asked politely.

“No, thank you, my lord,” she responded, using her teeth to cut the thread. “I’m nearly finished.”

“I thought you did fancier work,” he said as he eased to the ground beside Lyanna and started to stroke the direwolf. She squirmed with pleasure and shifted so she was lying on her back and Tyrion could pet her belly.

“I do, but we’re preparing for war and now is not the time for elaborate embroidery. Anyway, you don’t have to think very hard when mending. It’s a good way to keep your hands occupied while your brain has heavy things to think of.”

“Are they the sort of heavy things that could be lightened by sharing?”

Her smile was beautiful. “I thank you, my lord, but no. Not really.”

They sat without talking for a while longer, Sansa with her mending and Tyrion playing with Lyanna. At one point, the direwolf trotted away and came back with a stick for him to throw, which amused both of them for a time.

Eventually, Lyanna refused to give the stick back and started crunching it into pieces, while Sansa shook out the last tunic. 

“Done,” she said with clear satisfaction. Tyrion walked back from where he’d moved to throw the stick around and held out his hand. 

“Allow me, my lady,” he said, and Sansa laughed and let him pull her up. They started to move towards the gate when Viserion let out a grumble.

They drew to a halt, and looked back at the dragon. He stretched his neck out and nudged Sansa, bouncing the basket of mending on her hip.

“Oh, what do you want, you great lump?” she asked, running her hand over his scaly head. “You don’t need my permission to fly.”

“Maybe not, but the King and Queen took their dragons for a flight,” Tyrion said. “Maybe Viserion wants you to do the same.”

“Is that so?” she said, looking curiously at Viserion. “Well, we aren’t out of daylight yet…”

She put her basket of mending down, and Viserion lurched to his feet, shaking off the light dusting of snow that had fallen on him, and crouched his shoulder down for Sansa.

“Oh, these skirts are going to be a pain,” she complained, but she carefully picked her way up and attached herself to the harness that Viserion still wore. 

Tyrion went to pick up the basket of mending to take it back into the castle for her when Viserion grumbled again. Tyrion looked over to see that Viserion still had his shoulder lowered, and was looking at Tyrion with a disgruntled expression.

“I think he wants you to join us, my lord,” said Sansa with a laugh, and Tyrion felt his heart nearly stop.

Without his brain having much to do with it, Tyrion carried the basket of mending over to the base of the heart tree and tucked it between firmly two of the exposed roots before walking back to Viserion. He placed his hand on Viserion’s shoulder and when the dragon didn’t immediately turn around and swallow him whole, he took a deep breath and started the long climb.

After what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all, Tyrion was on top of Viserion’s great back, his wife’s elegant hands helping him attach himself to the harness. She stroked Viserion’s neck to signal that they were ready, and with a flap of his great wings the cream and gold dragon launched skywards. 

Viserion flew nearly directly up, then doubled back upon himself and tore back towards the ground, pulling up at the last moment and soaring across Winterfell. Clinging to Sansa and looking to the side, Tyrion marveled at the castle from above, seeing the tower his rooms were in and the faces of the men below. Jaime and Ser Barristan were visible in a courtyard as they flew past, and Tyrion lifted his hand to wave. Viserion tilted to the side as soon as he did, however, and Tyrion hurriedly grabbed hold of Sansa with both hands again.

He could feel her laughter from where they were pressed together, and his nose was full of the lemony scent of her hair. The warmth of Viserion seemed to burn through him, and Tyrion wondered what brilliant things he’d done in a past life to deserve to ride on the back of a dragon with the woman he loved.

They soared out over the forest to the east of Winterfell, startling a herd of deer into flight, before banking north. Viserion swooped low enough that the wind from his wings brushed the snow off trees and then suddenly the forest stopped, the ground plunging into a deep canyon. Viserion pointed his head straight down and snapped his wings into his side, corkscrewing his way to the bottom of the chasm, before letting them open and soaring up again. They flew the length of the canyon, Viserion often getting so close to the walls that it felt like Tyrion could put his hand out and touch them.

But he’d learned his lesson earlier. He wasn’t going to take his hands of Sansa, not now — possibly not ever.

* * *

The sun was setting when they made their way back to Winterfell, the pink and orange of the sunset reflected on both the snow below and the cream of Viserion’s wings.

They’d spent so much time recently moving the army via dragonback that it had been a long time since Sansa and Viserion had had an opportunity to just _fly_ , and she’d missed it more than she’d realised.

 _I’ll have to thank Viserion properly for this,_ she thought as they approached Winterfell, the lights of the castle beginning to shine. _A nice big lemoncake, and I wonder if I can persuade the Dornish cooks to make me a cauldron of that stew?_

Although the dragons still ate most of their meals raw, she’d gotten in the habit of letting Viserion try most of her meals when they’d been travelling the length and breadth of Westeros. Viserion didn’t think much of porridge or quail, but had been very fond of the dragon pepper and lamb stew that Prince Doran’s chefs had made for Sansa and Jon. It had made Sansa’s eyes water, but both Jon and Viserion had eaten their helpings with every sign of enjoyment. Viserion had even gone so far as to stick his head into the serving bowl that Sansa had brought to him and licked it clean, which had pleased Prince Doran’s chef so much he’d made a large cauldron full of the stew the next day for Viserion alone.

Since joining their army, the Dornish forces had learned to set up their camp at one side of the great army’s camp, as otherwise in his eagerness for Dornish cooking, Viserion was prone to flattening neighbouring tents (though he was generally very careful not to flatten any men).

They landed back in the godswood, the basket of mending still tucked beneath the heart tree but Lyanna long gone. They slid off Viserion’s back, and Sansa turned to look at Tyrion.

His eyes were wide with joy, and his face was rosy with excitement and the chill of the wind.

“My lady — that was — that -”

Words failed her clever husband, and remembering how she’d felt after her first dragon flight, Sansa reached for him as he reached for her. 

They crashed together, Sansa falling back on the soft snow and Tyrion landing on top of her. 

“I’m sorry, my lady -” was all he managed to get out before Sansa reached up and pulled his face down to hers, cutting his words off with a kiss.

She ran her hand down from the back of his head to where his jerkin ended, and slipped her hand up it, touching the warm skin of his lower back. He groaned, and ground his hips into her. She moaned in return, feeling his hardness pressing into her. She could feel herself becoming wet, and she pressed her thighs together to intensify the feeling. His hands were pulling at the front of her dress, and she put her hand on his chest and gently pushed him back. 

He immediately started to apologise and move off her, but Sansa kissed him again to shut him up before starting to work on the ties of her dress herself. Tyrion was frozen, watching her hands, until she stilled them. “We have a saying here in the North,” she said, delighting in how husky her voice sounded. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

Tyrion looked confused, but when she nodded to his chest, quickly got the picture and started to undo the bindings on his own jerkin. Sansa shivered as her warm skin was exposed to the cold air, but then with a leathery snap, the snow that had been softly falling on them was gone. 

They looked up to see that Viserion had spread one of his wings over them. His great head was peering at them, and then with a snort he pointedly looked away — leaving his wing extended. His wing shielded them from the snow and his bulk shielded them from view, and Sansa made a note to bring him lemoncakes every day for the rest of his life. No brother or squire or spymaster would interrupt them this time, not with a dragon keeping guard.

She looked at Tyrion, who was still staring at Viserion, and coughed lightly. Tyrion’s head snapped around, and when he saw she was naked from the waist up Sansa felt him harden even more. He reached for her again, and they fell back, Sansa’s discarded top between them and the snow. It felt like his hands were everywhere, and Sansa couldn’t get enough of the feeling of his skin under her hands. His back was firmly and nicely muscled, and when she reached further down to grab his ass he snapped his hips forward with a sharp cry. Sansa grinned, and pulled him closer to her.

A wicked glint in his eyes, Tyrion bent forward and took one of her nipples into his mouth, causing Sansa to be the one to yell. His clever fingers found the other nipple, and he played with them until Sansa felt wetter than she ever had before, like she was going to burn up and drown with desire all at once. She ran her hands around his hips and lay her hand over his member where it was pressed against his trousers, and Tyrion let her nipple fall from his mouth with a groan. She started to work his trousers open as he lay with his head on her chest, his breath hot on her skin. 

The angle was awkward, but Sansa was determined, and before long she managed to open his trousers enough that she could wrap her hand around his cock, making Tyrion gasp and snap his hips forward. “Gods! Sansa!”

She pressed her lips to his as she gently pulled her hand up and down his shaft, marvelling at it’s feeling of velvet over steel. It was hot and heavy in her hand, and she wanted to know what it would be like inside her, right now.

With her other hand, she grabbed one of Tyrion’s and tugged it down, to where her skirts had bunched up around her waist. She put his hand on her thigh and started to pull her skirts higher, to give him better access.

“My lady, are you sure?” he asked, sounding completely wrecked. His eyes were wide with lust and his lips kiss-swollen, and Sansa thought he’d never looked more beautiful.

“I’m sure, Tyrion” 

He groaned, and slid his hand up her thigh. He paused for just a second, then nudged her smallclothes to the side and slid his hand higher to cup her sex. He stroked the outside of it once, twice, then slipped his fingers between her folds. Sansa wasn’t sure which one of them groaned the loudest when his fingers met her wetness, but she didn’t care. All she could feel was Tyrion, his breath on her skin, his arm shaking beside her as he propped himself up on one arm to look down at her, and his fingers running along her slit. His thumb found her clit and pressed against it gently, causing her to tighten her grip on his cock as the pleasure raced through her. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her chest and slowly slipped a finger inside her.

It felt so much more _real_ when he did than when Sansa had tried herself, and she stroked his cock again. His finger gently pumped inside her, and then he slipped another in. He was moving gently, carefully, and Sansa felt like her skin and soul were on fire. She felt like she could no longer form thoughts or words other than “more” and “Tyrion”, and then his fingers did _something_ and pleasure washed over her in a wave. 

She came back to herself to find Tyrion pressing gentle kisses on her face, his hand still lightly stroking her. She smiled at him, and let go of his cock to push his trousers down.

His hand stilled. “Are you sure?” he asked again.

Sansa smiled, and caught his lips in a kiss. “More than anything.”

She felt him shudder, and then once she’d managed to push his trousers down and free his cock, she pulled him tight to her. “I want you, Tyrion. Now. And always.”

He dropped his head and groaned, then moved his hand from her. She mourned its loss for a moment, but then she felt his cock pushing at her entrance and the entire world narrowed to that. 

Tyrion smiled and kissed her as he pushed inside.

Sansa gasped, her eyes opening wide at the feeling of him, and they both froze. Sansa could feel him trembling as he fought to hold himself still. He felt...big. Uncomfortable. But there was none of the pain she’d been fearing — just fullness. She tightened her muscles around him, just slightly, wondering what would happen.

“Sansa?” he asked, his voice strangled.

She took a breath, then another, then nodded. “Yes, Tyrion, please. More. I trust you.”

His eyes slammed shut and he groaned, and Sansa pressed her hands against his ass, encouraging him to enter her fully. He slid into her until she felt his body come to rest against hers, and they both moaned. He looked up at her, his eyes shining with love and wonder, and Sansa moved her hand up and pulled at his nipple, like he’d pulled at hers. He shuddered, and she shuddered in response.

Tyrion swore and his hips pulled back and slid forward again, filling her and making her gasp, and she cried out for more. He started to thrust into her and Sansa moaned, her leg coming up to help keep Tyrion buried deep inside her, urging him closer with every stroke. He shifted the angle of his thrusts slightly, and Sansa arched her back, crying out as the pleasure built.

“Tyrion! Please!” she pleaded, hardly knowing what she was begging for, her world narrowed down to the feeling of this man, this wonderful, maddening, clever man and how he was making her feel.

She clung to him and nearly sobbed with relief when she tipped over the edge of her pleasure, the world disappearing with the force of it. She returned to the world to see Tyrion holding himself over her, his hard cock buried deep inside her while he trembled with the effort of staying still. Not knowing what to do, Sansa slipped her hands into his hair and scratched his scalp with her nails.

He let out a strangled cry and thrust sharply into her a few more times then stilled with a gasp, his head thrown back and the cords of his neck standing out. He shuddered deep inside her and Sansa felt herself clench down on his cock, causing him to groan and collapse forward onto her. 

He was still buried deep inside her as they lay in the snow together, panting, their bodies locked together under Viserion’s wing.

They traded gentle kisses, their hands softly stroking as much of each other as they could reach as their breath and their racing hearts slowed. Tyrion softened and slipped from her, and Sansa instinctively tightened herself, feeling bereft without him.

He smoothed her skirts down and tugged the side of her shirt over her torso. “I don’t want you to get cold,” he explained.

Sansa laughed and kissed him. “With you on one side, and Viserion on the other, I’m perfectly warm.” She wriggled slightly so one of her breasts was exposed, and was delighted to see Tyrion’s hand was drawn to it almost immediately. There was no urgency to his movements now, and she felt all warm and floaty and loved.

 _Love,_ she marvelled, and nudged Tyrion’s face up for a soft, lingering kiss. “I love you,” she said when they paused for breath.

He gawped at her, then smiled. “I love you too.”

They lay together, warm and cosy beneath a dragon’s wing until their sweat chilled and Sansa squirmed, the feeling of Tyrion’s seed on her thighs becoming...unpleasant. She wondered at the lack of blood on her thighs, but then she’d been riding horses since she was little and a dragon for months now. And she had been very, very ready for her husband. It seemed what some of her ladies had told her were true — often there wasn’t blood, and if you were lucky and the man you were with was kind, there was very little pain.

She sighed. “We can’t stay here tonight, can we?” she asked.

Tyrion gave her breast one final stroke, and quickly plucked the nipple of the other as he moved to sit up. “Not without a bedroll we can’t, unless we both want to be too cold and sore to move in the morning.”

They helped each other put their clothing to rights, and Sansa knelt down for Tyrion to try and untangle the mess of her hair. She stared at the face carved into the heart tree as his clever fingers worked through her hair and tidied her braid, carefully tying her bells back in. He kissed her on the top of her head when he was done, and she reached out to grab his hand.

“Tyrion,” she said, drawing him to her side. “You once promised me we would marry at Winterfell, before the heart tree.”

He looked at the tree, and back to her. “I did, my love.”

She tugged, and he fell to his knees. “Marry me. Now. In the North we don’t need a septon — just us and the heart tree. And we have us, and a heart tree.”

“Are you sure, Sansa? You don’t wish for your family to be with you? Your friends?”

“When the war is done, we can come back to Winterfell on our way south, and have a proper wedding feast then. We already traded cloaks years ago, but we’re here, now, and I want to marry you. Now.”

He smiled and kissed her. “Very well, my love. But you’ll have to talk me through the ceremony. I didn’t pay much attention to the septon last time.”

Sansa giggled, and positioned their joined hands between their chests. “It’s different here in the North anyway. Your first line is ‘Who comes before the Old Gods this night?’”.

He repeated it, his eyes serious, and Sansa tried not to laugh with joy as she answered. “Sansa of House Stark comes here to wed. A woman grown and flowered, she comes to ask the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Tyrion of House Lannister comes to claim her.”

“A man grown and true? Does he offer himself to his bride in the sight of the Gods? Will he ask to be taken?”

“A man grown and true. He offers himself to Sansa Stark in the sight of the Gods. Will you take me?”

Sansa nodded. “I take this man.” She reached forward and kissed him. “One more part, which we are to say together: Before the Old Gods, this I vow — I am yours, and you are mine. I will take no other, and be faithful to you for the rest of my days.”

He nodded, his throat working busily, and with a shared smile they said the words together. Sansa felt her heart grow with the strength of her love for his man — this brave, gentle and strong man. Her father had said that one day he’d find her a match worthy of her, and Sansa was sad that he hadn’t lived to see that she’d made such a match on her own, and on her own terms.

Tears of happiness spilled down her face, and Tyrion looked worried as he brushed them away. “My lady?”

“It’s okay, my love,” she said and leaned in to kiss him again simply because she could. “I’m just...happy. This isn’t the wedding I dreamed of as a foolish little girl. It’s much, much better. Though I wish my father and mother could have been here.”

“I’m glad they weren’t,” he said as he stood and offered her his hand. “I doubt they’d’ve approved of our pre-wedding activities.”

Sansa giggled, and then winced as muscles she hadn’t used in such a way before that evening protested.

“My love?” Tyrion asked, watching her carefully. “Are you in pain?”

She smiled. “No, my lord, things just feel slightly...different. I have a few muscles I didn’t know I had until now.”

Solicitously, he walked over to the tree and gathered up her basket of mending. “Then I will carry this for you, my love. To spare you a burden.”

“It’s hardly a burden.” 

He looked at her, utterly serious. “Sansa, my love, I would gladly bear any burden for you, big or small. You are...you are…” he trailed off, clearly frustrated.

“Daenerys once told me that her first husband used to refer to her as his moon, while he was her sun and stars.”

“No, that doesn’t work for you,” he said with a shake of his head as they rounded Viserion’s head to find the great dragon seemingly asleep. Sansa gently stroked Viserion’s face and pressed a quick kiss of thanks on his nose before they carried on.

“The sun and the stars are too distant. Too cold. Too far away. You are warmth and fire and love, and I can’t think of words enough to describe you,” Tyrion continued, sounding frustrated as they walked out of the godswood.

“I think ‘husband’ describes you nicely,” said Sansa as she led them towards the kitchens. “For example: come, my husband. Let us drop off that mending and see if we can beg a tray or two from the kitchens. Nights are long here in the north, and I’d have you in a bed. At least...twice tonight, I think. Maybe more.”

Tyrion gawped at her, and Sansa felt herself blush but held her head high. “What? We’ve wasted enough time. We were married years ago. Let us have our wedding night, finally. You have a reputation, my husband. I’d like to find out if it is justified.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus this fic earns it’s E rating, and after 234,400 words (the series up to this chapter) this slowest of burns finally catches alight!
> 
> The history of Starks marrying Starks is a thing! Thanks to [greengrlelphie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greengrlelphie/pseuds/greengrlelphie) for pointing it out in her story [Mhysa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18821851/chapters/44663287). It’s excellent, go read it.


	13. A Pleasing Form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Really? This is what you want to offer Lady Sansa? A second-hand lump of metal and a shard of rock? Why did I think to come to you for seduction advice again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one of the many things the show did to screw over the Sand Snakes was to change all their ages. Obara Sand is meant to be nearly 30, people!
> 
> Also, this chapter is when I started to curse myself for having two characters called Lyanna.
> 
> “Rocks and metal wrought in a pleasing form” is a reference to the Kushiel trilogy by Jacqueline Carey, which are excellent books!
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S07E04 ‘The Spoils of War’.

He didn’t have much time. They were due to leave any moment, but there was just one thing he wanted to do first. 

He found Gendry outside the forge, supervising the loading of the last of the dragonglass weapons into the carts. They’d been sending the weapons to The Wall since the first week they’d been there, but the Winterfell forge was larger than that available at Castle Black so the smiths had stayed. The fires of the forge hadn’t gone cold since, with the smiths and armourers working day and night in shifts to get the work done. Gendry may have been a cousin of the Queen, but to his men he was something more valuable — someone who could persuade dragonglass into smaller and sharper shapes than any other. 

By this time, Gendry Smith of House Tarth knew dragonglass better than any of them, and it was this expertise Tyrion was hoping to draw on now.

“Gendry!”

The smith turned towards him and smiled. “Lord Tyrion. We’re nearly ready to go. You must be pleased there’s no ships involved this time, hey?”

Tyrion grimaced at the mention of their trip north — boats were not his strength — and drew Gendry aside.

“I was wondering, while the forge is still warm...could you make something for me?” He drew a small piece of paper from his sleeve. He’d drawn it after Sansa had left their bed that morning, because the Lady of Winterfell had duties she could not skip. He’d lain there, warm and sated and glorying in the scent of sheets that smelled of _them_ , when suddenly inspiration had struck. He’d gone to Jaime, who after much mockery and jesting about Tyrion setting a record for the longest non-consummation of marriage ever, had proven to be the best brother ever and had given Tyrion a hand.

Literally.

_“It has been brought to my attention that while a gold hand is very pretty, it's not very useful,” Jaime had said as he'd passed the golden hand over. “Lady Brienne recommended a hook, so I can use it defensively. At least with a hook I can stab someone — gold is a little too soft to bludgeon someone with. Though I did try with Oberyn.”_

Thus, it was with a golden hand tucked under his arm that Tyrion pulled Gendry into the forge.

“The first time Sansa married, I gave her as many of my mother's jewels as I could, though most of them are still at Casterly Rock. This time, I want to give her something unique.”

“The golden hand of your brother?”

“I was hoping you'd be able to turn it into a ring. And set this in it.” Tyrion handed over a small shard of dragonglass.

Gendry seemed unimpressed. “Really? This is what you want to offer Lady Sansa? A second-hand lump of metal and a shard of rock? Why did I think to come to you for seduction advice again?”

“Because of the two of us in love with Stark girls, I'm the one who has mine in my bed. Tell me, where's yours again?”

Gendry frowned. “You came to me for a favour, Lannister. Speak kindly or leave.”

Tyrion sighed. “I'm sorry. I overstepped. Please, Gendry? A ring for my lady, made from these rocks and metal and wrought in a pleasing form?”

“What should I do with the rest of the gold?” asked Gendry with a sigh.

“Melt it down into bars, and keep half for yourself as payment.”

“Gold? What use is gold up here?”

“Not much, but I'm planning for us to survive. And if we do, you'll need the gold. Castles are expensive to run, and every little bit helps.”

“I don't have a castle.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “You have the best claim to Storm's End. The Queen may not have given you the Baratheon last name, but you're the only one who doesn't think you'll get the castle.”

* * *

Sansa staggered as she dismounted from Viserion at the end of the day, and would have fallen if it were not for the swift hands of Obara Sand. She didn’t regret her actions with Tyrion last night — not the first time, nor the second, nor the third (it was only the desperate need for sleep that had halted them in the end, and they had slept tightly wound around each other, unwilling to part even in sleep). Or even their slow and sleepy fourth time together this morning.

But muscles she hadn’t used before last night were upset that she had spent all day astride a dragon. 

When they’d first used the leapfrog technique on the way to the Twins, each company of men had had at least one ride on the dragons a day, if not two. It was what had helped them move so fast, and even at that pace there had been time for the dragonriders to take a break and stretch between companies.

They had so many more men now, and even with how fast they could now load and unload their men from dragonback not every company got a ride upon a dragon each day, and their progress towards The Wall was much slower than any since Riverrun. In their efforts to get as many men as far north as quickly as possible, Sansa, Jon and Daenerys hadn’t dismounted their dragons at all that day, having food handed up to them and eating on the wing. 

Obara looked at her critically. “You don’t normally stagger coming off your dragon, girl.”

Obara Sand was 14 years older than Sansa, and took every opportunity to remind Sansa of that fact. 

“I will be fine, my lady. It’s just a cramp.” Sansa took a few steps towards the command tent for the nightly meeting of commanders, when suddenly Obara cackled.

“Ah, so the rumours about you are true! You took your husband to bed last night!”

“Lady Sand!” hissed Sansa, whipping around and gesturing for silence. “That is a private matter between me and Lord Tyrion!”

Obara snorted. “You’re the Hand of the Queen, and Princess of the North. Nothing you do is a private matter. Though if you want to keep things secret — scream quieter,” she winked. “It’s good to hear that his reputation is justified. Now, I’m going to make my report to the Old Lion, then I believe we’ve halted here for the night because there are some hotpools around. You and me are going to take some guards and go for a nice soak, and you’re going to tell me everything.”

Sansa spluttered. “What makes you think I’ll tell you anything? I barely know you!”

“You’ll tell me, because I have some very excellent balm in my bags that will help cure those aches of yours that I will offer you in exchange for details. You might want to get your husband to apply it, girl. I’ve heard he has clever hands.”

* * *

The bath had been a good idea, Sansa thought as she slowly moved through their camp to where she could see Viserion in the distance. She had been stiff and sore, and the bath had helped, and she hoped the balm would help more. She’d had to give an uncomfortable number of ‘details’ before Obara had handed the balm over.

She was fairly sure she’d been blushing madly the entire time, and even bringing Daenerys, Brienne and Meera along hadn’t helped. Because Meera had brought wine, and Daenerys was apparently eager for gossip.

Sansa had been hoping that Brienne would have a cooler head and keep the conversation demure, but no. 

“He’s enthusiastic, but...kind,” Brienne had said of Tormund though she was blushing the entire time. “I expected him to be all...brash and wild and uncaring given his nature and what I’ve heard men around the campfires say, but he’s careful. He doesn’t dismiss my strength or treat me like I’m something delicate, but he isn’t rough either. It’s just...right.” 

After that Brienne quickly turned the conversation to Meera, who had apparently found a young Stormlord she was fond of — and was fond of telling the details of. 

Obara had then regaled them with a story about how she, Bronn, and another man had enjoyed a tryst in a hayloft one evening on their way through the Riverlands.

“Two men? At once?” Meera had asked, curious. “How does it work?”

“You have to be patient with them, and firm,” said Obara. “It is up to you to call the shots. But it is possible, with time, and them caring about your pleasure — and with a lot of stretching and oil.”

Obara made a few gestures to get her meaning across and then the womens’ attention turned to Sansa.

“So?” Daenerys had asked.

“Your Grace, I don’t…”

“Oh, stop dodging!” Obara had snapped. “Details, or I withhold the balm.”

“Balm?” Daenerys had asked.

“It will help with the stiffness from being on dragonback all day, your Grace. You might want some yourself, but the price of the balm is details.”

“I don’t want to hear any details about my brother!” Sansa had hurriedly said, mortified beyond words. 

Obara had shrugged. “Reasonable. Your story first then, and then you and your balm can leave and we can find out if the King in the North is as good in bed as he is pretty, or if it’s all just false advertising.”

“He’s not bad,” Daenerys had said. “And Sansa, unless you want me to hold you down while I tell everything, you’ll spill the details between you and Lord Tyrion.”

“What happens between a lord and his lady is private!” Sansa had protested, to boos from her friends.

“His reputation _does_ precede him,” Brienne had said. “Even as a young maiden on Tarth I had heard of the Lannister Imp and his depraved appetites.”

Seeing no hope from any quarter, Sansa had caved. “It was hardly depraved, even if we didn’t manage to make it inside the first time.”

“He spilled on you? Like a green boy?”

“No! No, he...in me. You know. No, we had been for a ride on Viserion, and Tyrion had been plastered against my back and had gotten hard during the ride and riding Viserion is so thrilling — proper riding, not this ferrying business — that we were both a bit excited and as soon as we hit the ground we, well, went for it. Outside. Under Viserion’s wing.”

Meera had looked suspicious. “Outside...where?”

Sansa had blushed. “We were in the godswood at Winterfell. In front of the heart tree.”

Her friends had all burst into laughter, and after a moment, Sansa had joined them. It was kind laughter, after all, of shared merriment.

“And then?”

“And then we went inside, and found a bed, and since we were no longer in danger of any of our bits freezing off -”

“One bit in particular, I’d say!”

“- we took our clothes off and did it properly. And then...again.”

“Three times?” Daenerys had clarified. “And then you rode a dragon all day.”

“Four times,” Sansa had blushed. “The last this morning.”

Her friends had looked at her with grudging respect, until Meera had leaned forward. “This is all well and good, but Sansa, we want to know — how big is his cock? Does he really have a third leg? Because that’s the rumour we heard at Greywater Watch.”

It had all gone downhill from there.

And now Sansa was walking back towards Viserion, her precious balm in hand, having left the rest of the women to their wine and Daenerys’ recounting of Jon’s prowess in bed. Between overhearing Jon’s comments to Jaime and Bronn about the first time he’d ridden a dragon and the little she’d heard from Daenerys before she was fully out of earshot, Sansa had heard more about her brother’s member than she’d ever wanted to know, and quite frankly, she could use another drink. Or ten.

When Sansa ducked around Viserion’s tail to where she knew her sleeping roll would have been set up at his side she was pleased to find Tyrion there, leaning against her dragon with her direwolf at his feet and reading a book aloud, seemingly to Viserion and Lyanna both. 

“My lord,” she greeted with a smile.

“My lady,” he responded, leaning up to give her a kiss as she settled beside him.

“What are you reading?”

“ _The Testimony of Mushroom,_ ” he said. “There’s a part about how when Prince Jacaerys Velaryon came to Winterfell at the start of the Dance of the Dragons, his dragon Vermax laid dragon eggs in the depths of the crypts, where hot springs are near the walls. I thought Viserion and Lyanna might like it.”

“...you picked a story to read because you thought my direwolf and a dragon would like it?” she asked with a laugh. _Gods be good I love this man._

He blushed and fidgeted. “It’s a _good_ story.”

Sansa leaned over and kissed him again. “And you are a wonderful man. It is very sweet of you to do that.”

They traded soft kisses for a while, and eventually Lyanna got up with a huff and left while Viserion swung his head away from them and covered them with his wing.

It was enough to make Sansa break their kisses with a laugh. “I think we are boring them, my lord.”

“You aren’t boring me, my lady. I have never been so unbored in my life.” He reached down to take her hand, and halted when his fingers touched the balm. “What’s this?”

“It’s some balm that Lady Obara gave me. She noticed I was sore, and said a soak in the hot pools and this balm would help.”

“Ah, so that’s where you all disappeared to. We’d wondered, but no man was brave enough to follow you and try and find out.”

“My lord?”

“Sansa, my love — although the idea of a group of beautiful women sharing a bath and possibly other things together is enough to inspire any man to stupidity, those of us who know the women involved were well aware that any who interrupted you would beg for the sweet release of death. Garlan stationed some of Lady Meera’s crannogwomen around the pools, out of sight, and stood guard himself. I believe Bronn and Jon are drinking together to try and hide their nerves, while a certain someone had to talk Tormund down from marching right up to the pool and offering a display of his abilities then and there.”

“Brienne would have murdered him.”

“She would have, and she seems fond of him, so I made sure he found something else to do. But my lady, the important thing I have to know — did you tell them I had a third leg?”

“What?”

“I have cultivated that rumour very carefully over the years, my dear. Please tell me you didn’t undo it.”

“You...what?”

Tyrion shrugged. “It’s something that is often said of dwarves. I figured I may as well use one of the things said about us to my advantage. But alas, it seems like you have undone my claim.”

“Even if I have, it doesn’t matter — if you think I am going to share you with anyone you are mistaken. You are mine, my lord, and your talents in the bedroom are for me, and no one else.”

Tyrion’s eyes darkened with lust, and he tugged at Sansa until she moved to straddle him. “Oh, Sansa, my love. I am yours, and only yours,” he said before claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss. Sansa dropped the pottle of balm and buried her hands in his hair, scratching her nails over his scalp and pulling lightly on his hair as she angled his head so as to kiss him better.

He groaned and shivered, and Sansa pulled away, concerned she had hurt him. “My lord?”

He blinked his eyes open, and she saw they were unfocused. “My lady. You can...please do that again.”

Cautiously, she tugged on his hair again and felt him shiver and groan. She could feel a wicked smile on her face as she leaned in to nip at his earlobe. “Does this please my lord?”

“Gods, Sansa, don’t stop,” he begged. “Mercy. I’m at your mercy. Oh, gods…” he trailed off with a groan as Sansa moved her lips from his earlobe to his neck, alternating nips with soft kisses. He bucked against her and she instinctively held him down, as she would a fighter she was training with, and yelped as a sharp pain knifed up her back.

“Sansa?” he asked, worry clear in his voice. “Are you okay?”

She held herself very still. “My back. It hurts.”

Carefully, he slid out from under her, and coaxed her to lie down on her bedroll on her stomach. “Here, lie down. I’m sorry, I should have thought. Where’s the balm?” he muttered to himself. “Is it okay if I take your top off and apply it? It might help.”

Sansa lifted herself up enough to work the laces of her gown free, glad she’d only put simple clothes on after her bath. “Please,” she gasped as white-hot pain seized her muscles.

She heard him breathing on his hands to warm them, and then felt them gently settle on her back as he straddled her. His hands gently moved along her back, slowly working at her muscles, and inch by inch she felt herself relax.

His hands felt so wonderful and warm that Sansa felt like her bones had been replaced by honey. She was fair floating on the sensation of his hands kneading at her muscles that it was almost a surprise to feel him harden against her back.

She wriggled slightly, and he cursed and his hands slipped slightly. “Sansa, no, relax. You’re sore.”

“I am, my lord,” she said, her voice husky. “My back is a lot better, but other parts of me are sore. My legs, for one.”

He pushed himself against her and pressed a soft kiss between her shoulder blades before moving off her and to the side, his gentle hands kneading at the sore muscles of her legs. He started at her knees, and slowly worked his hands up, finding the sore spots and carefully working at them until her muscles relaxed. When a particularly sore spot finally relaxed Sansa groaned in relief — and then groaned again for a very different reason when Tyrion reached down and pressed a kiss to the spot, his beard brushing against the skin of her inner thigh.

He chuckled, the feeling of his breath tickling her skin, but continued to move his hands up her legs. Under his ministrations her leg muscles relaxed, but she felt her core start to tighten with every touch of his hands. By the time he moved from massaging her legs to massaging her seat she could feel how wet she was against the cool night air, and she was hard pressed not to squirm.

Then one of his hands gently trailed from massaging her seat to slipping down between her legs and up to her wetness, and the feeling of relaxation was quickly burned through with feelings of desire.

“Tyrion…” she moaned, and he moaned in turn when he discovered how wet she was. He gently ran his fingers along her slit and Sansa pushed her hips back against him, desperate for more. He slipped a finger inside her and slowly started pumping it, and Sansa started to rock back against it, her hands clenching in the dirt beside her. “More, Tyrion, please…”

He slipped another finger into her, and then a third, and by this time Sansa was gasping with pleasure. “Tyrion, please, more. I need you.”

His fingers withdrew and settled on her hips and started to push. “Turn over, love. I want to see you.” 

Sansa could feel her wetness on his fingers and it made her even more aroused, and she hurried to turn over so she was lying on her back, her husband above her. “Hello,” she said with a smile.

“Hello,” he responded, bending down to kiss her. His kisses were lovely, but Sansa wanted more. She reached down to grab his ass and pull him towards her, hoping he’d get the hint. Without stopping his kisses, Tyrion reached down and then between one kiss and the next was slowly sliding inside her.

She arched her back with a gasp, desperate for him. Her kisses turned sharp with desire, but he held back. “Careful, my love. Careful. Like this.”

He kissed her as if she was made of glass, and his thrusts inside her were so deep and slow that the pleasure built inside her like a rolling wave. It crested, and she gasped as she came, her muscles quivering as her hands dug into Tyrion’s back. He didn’t stop his slow thrusts, however, even as she arched against him and cried out.

He paused as her breathing slowed, but he was still hard in her, and when Sansa tightened herself around him he shuddered and swore.

“Again,” she said, pulling him into a kiss. This time his strokes were still deep, but they speed up, his rhythm becoming more erratic but his mouth always gentle on hers. 

He came deep inside her with a stuttering cry, and Sansa held him close as she came again.

They drifted off to sleep still entwined, trading gentle sleepy kisses.

* * *

It was a hushed voice that woke Sansa in the morning. “No, stay!”

Sansa couldn’t place the voice immediately, but as she was still tucked under Viserion’s wing with her husband curled into her side she wasn’t too concerned.

He looked so peaceful when asleep. Sansa felt her great expand with love when she looked down at him, and carefully placed a kiss on his hair. He grumbled and turned closer to her, and Sansa was hard pressed not to giggle. _He’s never been that keen on mornings,_ she thought, remembering back to how she’d noticed that even in the early days of their marriage all those years ago, when they were barely more than strangers and he treated her as if she was a fragile thing made of porcelain. _And look at us now,_ she marvelled, feeling his naked body against hers and the slightly sticky feeling of sweat and come on her skin from their joining the night before.

 _I wonder if I have time for another trip to the hot springs?_ she wondered before her brain finally placed the voice she could hear from Viserion’s other side. It was the Lady Lyanna.

Knowing full well that she’d managed to fuck up her first meeting with the girl, Sansa decided this was her time to try and put things right with the young lady of Bear Island. The girl was beloved by those that Sansa trusted, and it didn’t sit right with her that they were at odds. 

_I treated her as if she was like me when I was younger,_ Sansa thought. _But she’s more like Arya when she was younger. And more like me now. That changes things._

Quietly, so as not to wake Tyrion, Sansa slipped into her clothes and crept out from under Viserion’s wing, finding Lady Lyanna brushing Lyanna, who was happily munching on a bone.

“Lady Stark!” said Lyanna. “I was just…”

Sansa smiled as she knelt down beside them. “It’s okay. I haven’t had time to brush her lately, so thank you. And thank you for taking on the role of Lady of Winterfell while I was away. My brothers were grateful for your help, and so I am.”

“You should have been there.”

“I know.”

“Why did you leave?”

“My lady, I left when I was very young, and I didn’t have a choice. I was a silly little thing, really. My mind was full of dreams and songs and poems and I never noticed what was around me until it was too late. It’s taken me a long time to grow up, so forgive me if I sometimes treat you like a child. I see me, not you.”

They sat for a while, Lyanna grooming Lyanna while Sansa braided her bells back into her hair.

“My mother died fighting for your brother. I was nine. She went with my sisters and none of them came back. After that, I had to be the Lady of Bear Island. I wasn’t allowed to be a child anymore.”

 _Seven hells,_ Sansa thought. _Nine. That’s how old Arya was when we started south with Father._

“I was fourteen when they married me to Tyrion. He was a good man and refused to touch me, but...I was far too young. My Name Day was the next day, and that was the day King Joffrey beheaded my father. Ladies like us don’t get to stay young, Lyanna. To too many people — too many men — sell us off for their own gain. They think we just exist to be wedded and bedded, with no thought to what we want. When I was a little girl I thought it scandalous how your mother never named the men she lay with, and never married. These days I think it sensible of her.”

“She was a skinchanger, who turned into a bear and found a mate in the woods,” said Lyanna, her small face deadly serious.

Sansa wanted to laugh and protest that this wasn’t possible, but...she was able to share her mind with her direwolf, one of her brothers had come back from the dead and another had visions of the past, while her closest friend was known to have walked into a funeral pyre and emerged unburned and carrying dragons. There was very little Sansa would react scornfully to these days.

Lyanna looked curious. “You didn’t laugh.”

“I’ve seen too much to discount such a thing, my lady,” said Sansa. “While I can’t take the form of a wolf, I can share my mind with my Lyanna and have done so several times. Who’s to say the women of your line can’t turn into bears?”

Lyanna looked satisfied. “I can’t, yet, but I hope it comes with time. And that it’s something I know how to do on my own, because if Mother told Dacey or Alysane or Lyra or Jorelle how to do it, thinking she had time to teach me later, then I’ll never know.”

“The Maesters at the Citadel might have books on it?”

“Like a Mormont woman would share knowledge like that with a man,” she scoffed. “Some knowledge is only for women. I’ve been learning some from Brigette and Otilia — did you know that north of the Wall they have Tietäjätär? They’re like our Maesters, but they’re all women. They know all the histories and the lore, most of it through songs, as well as how to heal wounds. They’re the ones that brew the ale and keep the hearth, and they are the ones that pass judgement when it’s needful.”

“Really?” asked Sansa. 

Lyanna’s face was alight with enthusiasm. “It’s not the same in all the tribes — the Nightrunners, for example, and the Bone People, and of course the fucking Thenns are hopeless like Tormund says — but there are lots of tribes where it is the women who have the power and make the decisions. Otilia wants to become a Tietäjätär when she’s older — she’s already started learning some of the lore from Brunhilde, the Tietäjätär of Karsi’s clan, and when we were at Winterfell she was helping Wolkan whenever she could so she could learn from him.”

“Do you think that is something you would like to do?”

“I’m the Lady of Bear Island,” said Lyanna. “I can’t be a Tietäjätär — they need to be free to go where their people need them.”

“So do ladies,” said Sansa. “Especially ruling ones like us. A ruling lady cannot afford to sit all day by her fire with her embroidery — we must know our lands, and our people, and rule fairly in judgement. When our people need help, we must help however we can. Why, my ladies and I helped sew wounds and treat the wounded after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, and you know there are medicines known only to women. And if you don’t know them, then I will teach you. Some things all women should know.”

“You sewed wounds?”

Sansa smiled. “I am an _excellent_ seamstress. Flesh is more annoying than silk and leather put together, but my stitches have never been so small or so fine when I’ve needed to sew flesh to keep a man alive.”

Lyanna looked up at her with clear awe, and Sansa was relieved. 

“You could be a Tietäjätär as well as a Lady — and a skinchanger. But first,” said Sansa as she stood, “we need to survive the war to come. Have you much training with weapons?”

“A bit,” said Lyanna. “Jon insisted.”

“Then let us spar a little,” Sansa said, “before we break our fast and get back on the road. I’m sure the armsmasters you’ve worked with are good, but they don’t necessarily understand how best it is for a woman to fight.”

“I’ve mostly trained with Lady Brienne,” said Lyanna.

Sansa grinned. “Who has a longer reach than many men I know, and the bulk to accompany it. But you and I, we’re smaller. We need to fight differently. For example, did Lady Brienne ever tell you to drop your weight?”

“Drop my weight?”

“Men have a lot of power in their chests and arms. Our strength is in our center, and our hips. An overhead strike from us won’t do much damage to a man — but we can come from underneath and get them off balance easily. I’ve got a few tricks that I can show you that will help with that.”

* * *

“Here,” said Gendry as he trotted his horse up beside Tyrion. “Don’t say I never did nothing for you.”

He passed over a small bag.

“Is it...?”

“Rocks and metal, wrought in a pleasing form,” the young man said. “I had to guess at the size of her fingers, but I think I got it right. And I gave the stone to Jorah the carver. He’s better at the fancy bits than I am.”

Tyrion fished the ring out of the bag, and marvelled at it. The gold shone in the light, and the dragonglass stone was glossy and dark — and had something carved into it. He looked closer and saw that Jorah the carver had carved a miniature direwolf head into the dragonglass, one that was only visible if you held the ring at a certain angle.

“Thank you, Gendry,” said Tyrion as he tucked the ring back into the bag and hung it from his belt. “It is excellent work, though how on earth did you manage to work gold on the road?”

“Gold’s not that hard to work without a proper forge,” said the young smith with a snort. “Damn stuff softens as soon as you look at it. I’ve been asked to work with harder on a portable forge, like that time Lord Turnberry asked me to turn a Valyrian steel dagger into a winecup…”


	14. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ser Brienne — your cousin will need your sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much dialogue taken from S06E05 ‘The Door’, S07E05 ‘Eastwatch’, S08E02 ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’, S04E08 ‘The Last of the Starks’ as well as _that line_ from S06E02 ‘Home’.
> 
> For all that Season 8 ended really terribly, I think we can all agree that S08E02 and S08E03 were fantastic episodes. I hope I’ve done them justice.

The Wall was...imposing. Very imposing. It filled the sky before her. Outside Castle Black, Sansa tilted her head back, and back, and back, and only then could she see the sky above it.

 _I should fly up and take a look once these men are unloaded,_ she thought, rubbing Viserion’s nose as the Dornishmen they’d carried climbed down. 

“Sansa!” cried a familiar voice, and she turned to see Inigo bounding out of the gates.

“Inigo? What are you doing here?” she asked, seizing her old friend and training master into a hug.

“It was terrible illness, but valiantly, I pulled through,” he said.

“It was a cold.”

Inigo waved his hand. “Inconceivable! I was on death’s doorstep, an inch from death! But miraculously, I recovered. At which point the Lady Olenna pointed out that Dragonstone was for refugees, and since I was a fighter, I was to head north and be of some use rather than be under her feet. It was about when Varys and Yara came through on their way north, so...here I am.”

“Varys and Yara are here?”

“Yara stayed with her ships but Varys is here, with a small complement of Ironborn, and a lot of barrels that his is very, very careful of.”

Sansa gasped. _The wildfire. He found it!_

Lyanna trotted up at that moment and Inigo shifted his attention to the direwolf, ruffling her fur and getting licked in the face in return.

Going above The Wall would have to wait — they had a battle to plan.

* * *

“Our scouts found them half a mile south of The Wall,” said Karsi. “They said they were on their way north. That they wanted to go beyond The Wall.” 

She led Jon, Daenerys, Jaime, and Sansa to the cells beneath Castle Black. 

“Sandor?” asked Sansa, recognising one of the men. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“It used to be you couldn’t look at me,” the Hound said as he sat up. 

“That was a long time ago. I’ve seen much worse than you since then.”

He looked her up and down. “You’ve changed, little bird.”

“Even little birds can have bloody claws.” She touched the hilt of her sword, and he nodded slowly, his eyes on her bells. “Why do you want to go beyond The Wall?”

“We don’t want to go beyond The Wall,” said the one with the eyepatch. “We have to. Our Lord told us the Great War is coming, and we mean to fight in it.”

“We’re all here at the edge of the world, at the same moment,” said the third man. “Heading in the same direction, for the same reason.” 

“Are they the same reasons?” asked Jaime.

“It doesn’t matter what we think our reasons are,” the third man continued. “There’s a greater purpose at work. And we serve it together, whether we know it or not.”

“We may take the steps,” said the man with an eyepatch, “but the Lord of Light -”

“For fuck’s sake will you shut your hole!” snapped the Hound. “We came north to try and kill as many of those dead fuckers as we can. Will you let us out or not?”

* * *

“A mile out, in a semicircle around Castle Black,” said Karsi. “We thought about trying to push the edges of the circle as far as Queensgate and Oakenshield, but we weren’t sure of how many men you would bring and how far you’d be able to support the front.”

She gestured to the map in front of them. “Maester Arton drew this this afternoon from the top of The Wall when your approach was spotted, showing where we’ve dug in. Ser Jorah had the idea to dig ditches and fill them with stakes, but it’s fucking hard work trying to get through the ice. We could use your dragons to help soften the ground for us.”

Daenerys looked at the map, where Maester Arton had sketched out a series of trenches, and nodded. “I will personally supervise them in this work once this meeting is over. Lord Jaime, what other defences would you suggest?”

He looked at the map and sighed. “I’d like to go atop The Wall, your Graces, and see the situation for myself. I’m sure Maester Arton has drawn a true copy, but I’d feel better seeing it with my own eyes.”

 _I wonder if he’ll piss from the top of The Wall like I did,_ thought Tyrion. _Probably not. Jaime always did have better manners than me._

“Your Grace, you know the enemy the best,” Jaime continued. “What tactics do they use? These trenches have been designed to pull in an enemy, to make them move through narrow paths that we may defend from above. Will these work?”

Jon shrugged. “The dead...they seek the easiest way.”

Tyrion moved forward. “But they don’t try and preserve their lives the way the living do, from what I saw at Hardhome. They’ll choose open ground when they can, but if the way is blocked they will try and force their way through no matter the damage to themselves. I saw one lose his arm when forcing his way through a gap yet he continued on towards us. They don’t stop.”

“They also don’t use weapons,” said Jon. “A few carry them, and they retain rudimentary skills, but you can’t engage with them. There’s no thrust and parry. They don’t tire and they don’t stop. They don’t feel.”

“Mostly, they seek to overwhelm the living and tear them to pieces,” said Tyrion. “Fire, dragonglass, Valyrian steel. These things stop them, but little else.”

“We can’t beat them in a straight fight,” said Jon. “They far outnumber us.” 

Jaime nodded as he absentmindedly moved figures around on the map, trying out this arrangement, then that. “What do they want?”

“The Night King made them all, and they follow his command. If he falls...they will fall.”

“So we stop him.”

“I don’t know if he can be stopped,” said Jon. “I don’t even know if he’s human.”

“He was,” said Bran as a Maester wheeled him forward. “Ten thousand years ago. He was Jon of the First Men — the Children of the Forest captured him and killed him by pushing a dragonglass dagger into his heart.”

"Jon?" asked Jon, looking faint.

“Why?” asked Daenerys.

“Because we invaded,” said Bran. “The First Men invaded Westeros, and started killing the Children and cutting down the weirwoods. The Children created the White Walkers to defend themselves, but they soon turned upon their makers.”

“The Long Night,” murmured Sam.

“Yes, the Long Night. The Night King was defeated in the end, and retreated to the Land of Always Winter. And now he has come again.”

“To what purpose?” asked Jaime. “I can’t defend against his movements unless I know what he wants.”

“He wants an endless night. He wants to erase this world. He’ll come for me — he’s tried before, many times and with many Three-Eyed Ravens. We are this world’s memory — I am this world’s memory.”

“How will he find you?” asked Tyrion.

Bran lifted his sleeve to show the mark of four fingers burned into his flesh. “His mark is on me. He always knows where I am.”

“And when he comes for you, he’ll be exposed,” said Jaime. “How many of the tunnels through The Wall are open?”

“Just Castle Black,” said Edd. “Eastwatch doesn’t have a tunnel, and we sealed the one at Shadowtower after Hardhome.”

“So here is the easiest place for them to cross, unless they can climb.”

“Surely no one can climb The Wall,” said Garlan.

“It’s possible,” said Jon. “I did it with the Free Folk a few years ago. And they’ll have it easier — they can just pile themselves up and up and up until they reach the top. And then they don’t have to worry about getting back down — I saw them fall from the cliffs at Hardhome and walk it off. Heights don’t kill them.”

“Can they swim?” asked Brienne. “Can they cross the ocean at Eastwatch?”

“They can’t cross moving water,” said Bran. “That was one of the last pieces of magic the Children performed. They didn’t want the White Walkers to be able to invade somewhere else, so they broke the wheel — shattered it into a spiral of hundreds of pieces.”

Tyrion noticed Sansa and Daenerys share a look at that, and wondered what his clever wife and her queen were thinking.

“So he will hit us with everything he has in an effort to get to Bran,” said Jaime. “I can defend against that. So. We need to keep as many of our men alive as possible, knowing that the Night King will be heading straight for Bran. Will dragonfire and wildfire stop him?”

“I don’t know,” said Bran. “No one’s ever tried that before.”

Jaime nodded. “Then we’ll leave the wildfire as a last resort.”

“Why not use it first?” asked Lady Lyanna. “We could throw the wildfire down on them from The Wall, while our men are safe on this side.”

“It seems like a sensible idea, my lady,” Jaime said, “but if it doesn’t work, our men are stuck trying to get through a very small tunnel to face a very large army. We’ll have the wildfire on the northern side of The Wall, and we’ll only use it if we’ve sounded the retreat. Ser Barristan, Ser Davos — you’ll be with me atop The Wall. We’ll work out a series of signal flags, and have the young ones with us as runners. Down below, Lady Brienne will protect our left flank, with the mounted knights of the Stormlords and the Vale. Ser Garlan, you will have the right, with your own mounted knights and those from Dorne. We have no idea if the enemy can think, but if they can, hopefully they will be confused at the differences in tactics between your men. Keep your men fresh, and spell them often. It is going to be a long battle, commanders, and we all want to make it to the end. Do as much damage as you can but keep the dead funneled in towards Castle Black so they can’t sneak around us. We’ll have staggered waves in the center — the Dothraki up first, then the army of the West, then the Free Folk and Hill Tribes, then the Northern lords, the Unsullied…”

* * *

“Do you think it will work?” asked Sansa as she lay with her head on Tyrion’s chest, lightly running her fingers through the sparse hair. “Your brother’s plans?”

“I think it will,” he said, tugging her hand up for a kiss. “The plans are sound, and they aren’t just his. You saw how he took advice from everyone in that room — even from the Dothraki and the Hill Tribes, and most importantly from the Free Folk.”

“I’m worried for you,” said Sansa. “I don’t want you to die.”

“Me, my lady? You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be with Bran and Meera and your cousin here in Castle Black, with The Wall between me and the army of the dead. I’m worried about _you_. There’ll be no one between you and them.”

“Viserion will be between me and them,” she said, raising her head for a kiss. “I’ll be safe as long as I’m with Viserion, and if we’re grounded for any reason, I know how to fight. I earned my bells, you know that.”

“After your fight with Theon I have no doubt you can fight, but...Sansa, I love you. You’re precious to me. And it tears at me that you are going to be out there without me.”

Gently, he moved her head to the pillows and slipped out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Not far,” he said, coming back to the bed with his sword and a small bag in his hands. “I never want to be far from you. A day without seeing you, my lady, is a day I don’t want to spend alive.” He slipped back into the bed with a shiver — underneath their furs was much warmer than the small room they’d been given. From his previous time at Castle Black Tyrion knew that Jon had given his sister one of the nicer rooms for the night, but nice for Castle Black was still pretty awful.

“That was...terrible.”

“I’m not a poet,” he agreed with a laugh. “It’s not what I do. What I do is drink, and I know things. And I know you make my life worth living.” He handed her the sword. “Here. Take this tomorrow. I’ll feel better if you have it.”

Sansa touched the hilt of the sword with careful fingers. “I’ve seen this before. It was Joffrey’s sword. What did he call it?”

“Something terrible,” he said, hoping to distract her. “But Jaime gave it to me, and I renamed it Bright Roar. It was one of the two swords forged from your father’s sword.”

“Ice,” she said, pulling the sword from the sheath. “I remember when it was taller than me.”

“The other half is on Brienne’s hip,” Tyrion said, delighting in the way the light of the fire gleamed off the sword and fell upon Sansa’s body, highlighting her curves. “It seems right to me that both halves of the Stark family sword should be north of The Wall, defending the Realms of Men.”

“You don’t think you should have it with you to defend Ned Stark’s son?”

“If they make it through to us, the war is already lost. Have it north of The Wall, in the defense of Ned Stark’s other sons.”

“Jon will be on Rhaegal, and Rickon is one of the runners atop The Wall with Jaime.”

“Then my family is as safe as they can be,” he said.

“Your family?”

“Sansa, you married me. Twice. Your family is now my family, and mine is yours. And speaking of our marriage, I was hoping you would wear this as a sign of it.” He fished in the bag and pulled out the ring.

“A ring?”

“Gold, for my family, and the direwolf for yours.”

He held his breath as Sansa held the ring up to the light, watching the flames flicker over the direwolf etched into the dragonglass. “Tyrion, it’s lovely. Put it on me?”

She extended her hand, and Tyrion took back the ring and tried to slip it onto her finger. 

_Fuck! It doesn’t fit!_

Sansa giggled as Tyrion tried it on each of her fingers, and it finally settled on her smallest finger. “I love it, my lord. I’ll wear it every day.”

She pulled Tyrion in for a kiss, her hands cradling his face, and he could feel the cold band of metal against his skin. It felt like love.

“I actually have something for you too,” she said, slipping out of bed. Tyrion relaxed back and watched as she walked across the room, her hair swinging long against her back and her hips rolling as she walked. _Gods, she is magnificent._

She carefully removed a bundle from her bags and brought it over to the bed. She sat on top of the covers, the slight chill in the air causing her nipples to pebble, and before Tyrion could become distracted with thoughts of how nicely her breasts fit into his hands she shook out the bundle.

“I made this for you.” It was a cloak, cut to his size, with a direwolf and a lion’s head worked into the leather cross straps. “I made it like the one my father used to wear, or as near as I could remember.”

His fingers traced the sigils. “Sansa…”

“You’re a Stark now. You should have a Stark cloak, not wear a cast off from the Night’s Watch. But it didn’t feel right, not having your lion on there. My mother never stopped being a Tully, even after she married my father, and I can admit that not all of your family is horrid. Besides, our children will be half-Lannister. The world won’t hide that from them, so why should we?”

His hands full of soft fur and hours of work, Tyrion felt tears begin to well in his eyes. “Children?”

“Well, yes,” said Sansa. “We’ll need some, eventually. Winterfell is ours, and I want to have children to leave it to. Don’t you want children?”

“You aren’t…” he stopped and dropped his eyes to the cloak in his lap, unable to voice his fear. 

Sansa’s had reached out and tipped his chin back, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “I’m not what, Tyrion?”

“You aren’t scared that they’ll be like me?”

“Oh, Tyrion, _no_ ,” she said, gathering him close. “No. Why would I be?”

“Sansa, you don’t understand. All my life I’ve been mocked, called names -”

“Much of it by your own family,” she said. “And I will never treat my children like that. They will be loved, whether they be dwarfs or giants or something in between, because they are my children. Our children. My mother started a war because she loved her children — do you really think I’d do anything less for ours?”

She leaned back and looked at him, and his hands just kept petting the cloak. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” Sansa said with a smile. “As sure as I am that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. As sure as I am that Dorne is hot and the North is cold. As sure as I am that I love you.”

Gently he placed the cloak to the side and took her hands, tugging her over to straddle him. “That sure are you?” he asked as he dipped his head forward and took one of her nipples into his mouth, running his hands down her sides and pulling her down onto his cock.

Even through the blankets he fancied he could feel her warmth, and his cock, always interested whenever Sansa was naked, started to pay even more attention. 

"Very sure," she said as she pulled the blankets out from between them and tucked them around her hips.

He trailed his fingers around her hips and framed the base of her stomach with them, wondering how his wife would look swollen with their child, and pushed himself up to kiss her. Sansa slid her fingers into his hair, lightly scraping at his skull, and he groaned.

She then slid one hand down his body and wrapped it around his cock, gently stroking it to full hardness.

"Sansa," he groaned, and she looked at him with mischief in her eyes.

She shuffled further back and leaned down, licking the lip of his cock, and it was all Tyrion could do not grab her hair and start fucking her mouth. He grabbed the sheets instead and tried desperately to keep his hips still. "You don't...you don't need to do that," he panted.

Sansa grinned at him and the sight of her with his cock in front of her mouth made him get impossibly harder, a bead of pre-come forming at the top of his cock. She raised her hand and touched it with her finger, then licked her finger clean of him and Tyrion nearly spent himself like a green boy at the sight.

"Hmm," she hummed. "It's not so bad. I don't know what the others were complaining about."

 _What others?_ he wanted to ask, but then her warm mouth was sliding down his cock and his brain emptied of all rational thought.

Sansa let out a frustrated noise when she couldn't take him all the way, and he managed to gasp "hands!" 

His clever wife took hardly any time to work out how to use her hand and mouth together, and soon — too soon — he was pushing at her. "Sansa, wait, stop," he panted. "I'm going to come."

She let him slip from her mouth and he groaned as the cool air hit his cock. Sansa pressed a kiss to the tip of his cock, causing it to jump, then moved up the bed.

"You are not to die tomorrow, my lord," she instructed. "It's not as good as when your mouth is on me, but I want to do that again." 

Sansa reached down to kiss him and the taste of himself on her lips robbed Tyrion of his breath.

She moved as if to lie down and he stopped her. "No, my lady, like this. Please." He encouraged her to straddle his hips again and when she was poised over him, gently ran his fingers through her slit to check how wet she was. Fortunately, she was dripping — still wet from their activities earlier — and it was all he could do not to thrust into her immediately.

Instead, he held his cock still, and smiled at Sansa. “Please, my lady. Take me.”

Slowly, she slid herself down his cock, and Tyrion groaned at how tight and wet and hot she was. _Gods, she always feels so fantastic,_ he thought as she took him fully inside her with a groan.

Sansa paused for a few minutes and Tyrion valiantly tried to keep himself still, but the temptation was too much and his hips jerked, causing Sansa to gasp.

“Oh,” she breathed, and tentatively raised herself up and slid back down on his cock, causing both of them to groan. 

“Yes, Sansa, like that,” he said, and slowly and then with more confidence his wife started to ride him in earnest, her hips rolling as she took her pleasure. The fire behind them shone through Sansa’s hair and highlighted the long lines of her neck when she tipped it back, gasping in counterpoint to her thrusts. _I always did like her neck,_ he thought wildly in an attempt to hold off his orgasm.

His control was sorely tested when Sansa slipped one of her hands down and into her wetness to play with her clit. Tyrion wanted to help but he was struck dumb with lust, and could only clutch at her hips as Sansa ground down upon him, her fingers frantic until she came around him, throwing her head back and screaming his name.

As her orgasm faded, Sansa slumped forward over him, her arms barely coming up to stop her in time from faceplanting onto him. Her hair swung forward, enveloping them in the scent of lemons and sex, and Tyrion captured her lips in a desperate kiss. Her lips moved in more of an exhausted gasp than a kiss, and Tyrion found himself begging Sansa, pleas tumbling from his lips as he frantically thrust his hips into her, his own orgasm just tantalisingly out of reach. Sansa moved one hand so it was buried in his hair, and dragged the other up to one of his nipples. She sunk her teeth into his bottom lip as she pulled on his hair and twisted his nipple, and Tyrion came with a roar.

* * *

The fire had burned down far enough that Sansa thought about getting up to stoke it. It wasn't like she was asleep — her body was relaxed and sated after having sex but her mind whirled, distracted at the thoughts of the battle to come in the morning.

Well, later in the morning. She was sure it had passed midnight by now. _It must be nearly dawn!_

The complete lack of sunlight creeping around the shutters said otherwise, however, and Sansa sighed.

"I'm glad I'm not the only one," said Tyrion. 

"I want to sleep, but I can't. I don't remember it being like this before the Battle of Blackwater — my mind just won't... stop. I keep wondering what will happen to my friends, my family...to you."

"I know what will happen to me," he said as he brushed a kiss to her lips. "I'm going to spend the battle beside your brother and Sam and Lady Meera, flinching at every sound from the other side of The Wall and starting every time someone comes through the tunnel in case it's one of the dead. I'm going to stand there quite uselessly the entire time, despite being one of the few men who has actually fought the dead before."

"They may not have fought the dead before, but there are thousands of men here who can swing a sword or an axe. There's only one of you, and I am so selfishly glad you'll be as safe as I can make you," Sansa said, feeling fiercely protective of her husband. _I'm going to thank the gods every day that Jaime insisted on keeping his brother out of the fight,_ she thought. "Viserion and I will kill plenty of the dead — more than enough to bring honour to our house."

"My bloodthirsty wolf-bride," he said as he kissed her again. "I pray that none of the dead come through the tunnel, for surely it would mean you were gone. And I don't want to live in a world without you."

As much as Sansa wanted to encourage him to live on without her, as the lovers always did in fairy stories, she had to be realistic. If the dead made it through the tunnel then it was likely they'd all be dead.

"Come on," she said as she threw the furs back. "We're clearly not going to get any sleep tonight, so let's see if we can find anyone else awake and fretting. If this is to be our last night on earth, I want to spend it surrounded by the people we love."

They rose from the bed and Sansa was pleased to see Tyrion wear his new cloak. She reached out to help position it correctly on his shoulders, and afterwards he kissed her hand in thanks and ushered her out of the room. 

Sansa could see Viserion in the courtyard below, and turned to Tyrion. “Go on ahead of me, my love. I’m going to check on Viserion — I’ll join you in the hall shortly.”

He went on ahead with a nod and Sansa slipped into the courtyard. She rounded Viserion’s tail and was amused to see Ghost, Lyanna, and Osha in a furry pile at his side, clearly enjoying the heat that emanated from the dragon’s hide.

“We have all the men we need, my lady,” she heard Ser Jorah say as Sansa walked towards a door into the Castle proper. “There’s no need for you to risk yourself.”

“I have fought before,” responded Lyanna. “I can fight again.”

Sansa drifted closer.

“Listen to me,” said Ser Jorah, insistent. “You’re the future of our House -”

“I do not need _you_ to remind me of that!” Lyanna snapped. 

“You’ll be safer on The Wall, or behind it. Your friends aren’t fighting — Rickon and Brigette are runners on The Wall, and Otilia is staying with the healers here in Castle Black -”

“My friends are not the Lady of Bear Island. I am. And I will not ask my men to fight in a battle I am not prepared to fight in myself!”

Sansa could see Ser Jorah sigh, and then turn his head slightly to see Samwell Tarly hovering at his elbow.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” said the young man, and Lyanna shrugged.

“It’s alright,” she said as she glared at her cousin. “We’re done here. I wish you good hunting, cousin. Make Bear Island proud.”

“Thank you, my lady, but I rather think I will fight to make you proud.”

Lyanna nodded at Ser Jorah and walked off, her men falling in behind her.

“She scares the stuffing out of me,” said Sam once Lady Lyanna was out of earshot. “I can’t imagine trying to tell her what to do.”

“She’s the Lady of Bear Island,” remarked Sansa. “If you’re not scared of the women of the North, you’re an idiot.”

“Lady Stark speaks the truth,” said Ser Jorah with a bow in her direction.

“She’ll be as safe as we can manage,” Sansa told Ser Jorah. “She and her men are on the left, under the command of Lady Brienne. Brienne will do all she can to keep the men of Bear Island in reserve, I know she will. She’s very fond of your cousin, Ser Jorah. She won’t risk Lyanna unnecessarily.”

Ser Jorah still looked uncomfortable. “What have you got there, Tarly?”

“It’s called Heartsbane,” he said, lifting the sword and holding it out to Ser Jorah. “It’s my family’s sword. I...took it.”

“You still have a family. I’m sure I saw your banner somewhere.”

“Aye, they’re here, but they prefer not to acknowledge me, and I prefer not to acknowledge them. I’d love to defend Gilly and young Sam, my real family, with Heartsbane, but...I can’t really hold it upright. Your father taught me how to be a man, far more than mine ever did. How to be strong, and brave, and to do what’s right. And this is right,” Sam said firmly. 

“It’s Valyrian steel,” he continued. “I’m stationed on this side of The Wall, guarding Bran. You’ll be out there, facing them. Heartsbane will be of more use to you than to me, and I would be honoured if you’d take it.”

Sam held out the sword and Ser Jorah accepted it, pulling it slightly from its sheath and watching the flames dance across the Valyrian steel. 

“I’ll wield it in his memory,” said Ser Jorah, his voice rougher than Sansa had ever heard it. “To guard the realms of men.”

* * *

“I wish Father was here,” Tyrion said as he and Jaime sat in front of the fire in Castle Black’s hall. With the sheer amount of men around it was strangely deserted, but then most of the men were camped beyond The Wall, because trying to move the entire army through the tunnel at once in the morning would be an impossible task.

His brother looked at him as if he were mad, and Tyrion elaborated. “I would love to see the look on his face when he realises his two sons are about to die defending Castle Black.”

Jaime sniggered. “That would be something to see. But we’re hardly likely to die — I’ll be on top of The Wall. You’ll be behind it.”

Tyrion shrugged, and looked up at the room’s rafters. “I remember the first time I came here, after our visit to Winterfell. You were a golden lion, and I was a drunken whoremonger. It was all so simple.”

“It wasn’t that simple. I was sleeping with our sister, and you had one friend in the whole world — who was sleeping with his sister.”

“I was speaking in relative terms.” 

“Do you miss it?”

“No. No. For all we’re about to face our deaths — spare me your logic, for all we know this _could_ be our last night alive — I don’t miss who I was. The last few years have been hard, but...I was a fucking fool back then. A complete idiot. I like to think I’m better now.”

“You’ve...grown,” said Jaime. “As self-absorbed as I was back then, even I knew you were unhappy. You carry yourself differently now — you know who you are, and your place in the world. I should thank my good-sister — she’s been the making of you.”

“I can’t deny that,” Tyrion said, and raised his glass in a toast. “To Sansa Stark, who made me who I am.”

They drank, and Tyrion looked questioningly at Jaime. “Is there anyone for you, brother?”

Jaime clinked his glass against his hook. “I thought there was someone, but...I may have left it too late. She deserves a man who is whole; a good man. And I am neither.”

“You’re better than you once were.”

“That’s not hard; I fucked my sister and I killed my king. It would be hard to be worse than that. I’m just not sure where to go after this.”

“The perils of self-betterment,” Tyrion said, and they raised their glasses in a toast — only to pause as the door to the hall opened. They turned in their seats and Jaime scrambled to his feet upon seeing who it was, Tyrion following a beat behind.

“My lady,” said Jaime, and Tyrion saw the look that passed over his face. _Oh, Jaime,_ he thought sadly.

“My apologies, we didn’t mean to interrupt. We were just looking for somewhere warm to -”

“To contemplate your imminent death? You’ve come to the right place. Want some wine? It’s not bad, but it’s not good either.”

“Thank you my lord,” said Pod with a grin as he came to join Tyrion.

 

“I don’t think that’s wise. We have a battle to fight, one that might start any moment.”

“The battle won’t start until the sun has crested the horizon,” said Bran as he wheeled himself into the room. “That much I can see.”

With a grin, Tyrion poured Pod a decent glass of wine, plus more reasonable glasses for Brienne and Bran. Pod handed Brienne hers, which she took with a gruff thanks as she pulled a chair close to the fire, while Bran just looked blankly at Tyrion when offered the wine.

Tyrion shrugged and drank the wine himself. No sense in wasting it.

“And what do we have here?” asked Davos as he strode into the room.

“Ser Davos! Join us,” entreated Tyrion, waving his glass at the knight.

“No, not for me thanks, I came here for this,” he said as he made a beeline for the fire. “I figured I could wait to die freezing my balls off out there, or I could wait to die with my bal- your highness!” he said with a start as Sansa entered the room on Tormund’s arm.

Apart from Bran they all scrambled to their feet and Sansa smiled softly. “You don’t need to stand for me, my friends. Not now, and not here.”

Tormund went to fetch them seats but Tyrion had a better idea, pulling Sansa into his lap.

“My lord!” she laughed. “This is hardly dignified.”

“It may very well be our last night alive,” he said, resting his head on her shoulder. “Neither of us may be able to sleep, but I refuse to spend it further away from you than I must.”

Sansa rewarded his proclamation with a quick kiss — then stole his wine glass out of his hand.

“Hey!” he protested, causing the group to laugh and Jaime to bring him another glass, clapping Tyrion on his back before returning to his seat beside Brienne of Tarth.

“Fine, laugh at the man who will die tomorrow,” Tyrion grumbled.

“You won’t die tomorrow,” said Bran. “I think most of you will live.”

“You think?” asked Sansa. “I thought you could see the future. Shouldn’t you know?”

“The future is hard to see; the past is easier. The past is fixed in stone — it has happened. The future may yet happen, and it is confusing. I prefer to spend my time in the past — looking ahead too much makes my head hurt. There’s too many possibilities.”

“It’s like embroidery,” said Sansa, resting her head on Tyrion’s. “It’s always easier to follow a pattern or repair a pattern than come up with one from scratch. Sometimes it’s frightening, looking at that blank cloth, knowing as soon as you make that first stitch you’re committed. Even if you undo the stitches, you can always see what was there.”

“Very much like,” agreed Bran. “But there are some things I can see. For example, Ser Brienne — your cousin will need your sword.”

Brienne looked uncomfortable. “Thank you, my lord, but I am not a ser.”

“You’re not a ser?” asked Tormund. “You’re not a knight? How did I not know this?”

“Women can’t be knights,” Brienne explained.

“Why not?”

Brienne shrugged. “Tradition.”

“Fuck tradition,” said Tormund. “Why shouldn’t you be a knight? I’m no king, but if I was, I’d knight you ten times over. We should go and find Jon, get it done.”

“You don’t need a king to make a knight,” said Jaime from where he’d stood to get more wine. “Any knight can make another knight. Most of us are knighted by other knights — kings do fuck all for us, really. I’ll prove it.”

He put his glass down on the table and walked to the middle of the room, drawing his sword.

“Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Lord Jaime…”

“I may be a lord, but I’m still a knight. Do you want to be knight or not?”

Brienne looked torn, and Sansa raised her head from where it had been resting on Tyrion’s. “Do it, Brienne. You deserve it.”

“Ladies don’t become knights,” she said, sounding uncertain. 

Sansa shrugged. “Maybe they should. The world is changing, Brienne. Part of why Daenerys came to Westeros is to make the world a better place. And I happen to think the world would be a better place with you as a knight.”

“Hear, hear,” said Davos.

“It might also stop your cousin trying to declare you a princess,” continued Sansa. “I know ever since I accepted the title, Daenerys has been pushing for you to accept it too.”

Brienne shuddered, and rose to her feet after a long look at Pod. 

Jaime nodded. “Kneel,” he softly repeated.

Slowly, Brienne walked over to Jaime and took a knee, and the rest of them stood respectfully — other than Bran, of course, who sat with a smile on his face as he watched the events play out.

“In the name of the Warrior,” said Jaime as he laid his sword on Brienne’s right shoulder, “I charge you to be brave.” He shifted the sword to her left. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” He moved the sword back to her right. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.”

He slowly moved his sword back to his side, and Brienne looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes.

“Arise, Ser Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime said. “A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Brienne rose to her feet and Tormund began to clap, a proud look on his face. The rest of them joined in their applause as Brienne crossed back to them, brushing her tears from her face.

“To Ser Brienne of Tarth!” cried Tyrion, raising his glass in a toast. “A knight of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Brienne grinned, her face shining with joy as Sansa seized her in a tight hug.

“Thank you,” Tyrion heard Pod say quietly to Jaime. “You’re a good man, Jaime Lannister.”

“No,” his brother replied. “I’m really not.”


	15. The Battle for the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Below them, in the dark of the woods beyond The Wall, a horn blew three times.
> 
> The dead were upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, the final chapter in this fic. There’s a lot of violence in this chapter, but if you’ve seen any of the battles in the show you should be fine. 
> 
> This chapter is really long, so grab a drink and settle in. See you on the other side!
> 
> Some dialogue from S07E02 ‘Stormborn’, S07E05 ‘Eastwatch’, S08E03 ‘The Long Night’.

“The edge of the world,” mused Daenerys as she and Jon stood on The Wall, looking down at the camps of their men below them, the fires burning bright against the monsters that they all knew were out there in the dark.

“The edge of the Seven Kingdoms,” corrected Jon. “There is much, much more land north of here. And despite what the Night’s Watch pledge says, it’s the realms of man too. At least, it was. I don’t suppose anyone is left out there now.”

Daenerys reached for Jon’s arm and tucked her head onto his shoulder. “You’ve been out there?”

“Aye, I’ve been to the base of the Frostfangs, where the Thenns make their camp. Beyond that is the Land of Always Winter, where not even the Free Folk will dare to tread. Ser Jorah’s father led us north of The Wall in a Great Ranging a year or so after I got here.”

“To what end?”

“To find out if the rumours were true. Too many of our men were going missing, the Free Folk were massing and White Walkers had been sighted. He led three hundred of us to the Fist of the First Men, a hill several days march north of here. It’s the remains of an old fort. Commander Mormont hoped it would protect us. It didn’t. My brothers fight for the Night King now. As does my uncle, probably.”

“Your uncle? What did he do?”

“Uncle Benjen was First Ranger. He was a hero.”

“No, what did he do to be sent here?”

“Sent here?”

“The Wall is for criminals, is it not? Those who are paying for a crime, or washing away a shame?”

“So what am I? A crime or a shame?” Jon asked, not bothering to hide the hurt in his voice.

“I didn’t mean…”

“You didn’t mean me? Or Sam? Or Tyrion? Yes, The Wall is where criminals get sent these days, but it wasn’t always so. It used to be that the oldest child inherited, and one of the younger sons would be sent to the Maesters and another to The Wall. It was a hard life, but an honourable one.” _And given both orders require celibacy of their members, it prevented a cousin from having a claim over the oldest child’s line,_ thought Jon. 

“Perhaps we could make it so again,” said Daenerys, her tone conciliatory. 

“Will we still need a Watch? The Free Folk have come south, and settled in the Gift.”

“I suspect many of them will want to return to their homes once the war is won,” said Daenerys. “They are grateful for the protection of The Wall from the dead, but they want to return to their homes, much like my Dothraki want to return to their steppes once I am on the throne. Our land is not their land. It is unfair to ask them to stay. If they return to their ways north of the Seven Kingdoms, and once again begin to raid us, we will need the protection of the Watch. And even if we defeat the Night King, I don’t trust that another threat will never come from the north ever again. We must reintroduce the Watch, and having a king-consort who is a former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch should help improve its attractiveness to the young men of Westeros.”

“It would help if we removed some of the strictures upon the service,” said Jon. “If a criminal serves well for five or ten years, his sentence should be considered served. And if a free man serves well for the same length of time, he should be allowed to take a wife. Those two measures will go a long way towards making the Watch a more appealing option, and we should recruit from the smallfolk more. We should also consider having a branch of the Watch staffed entirely by women. If preparing for this war has taught me anything, it’s that it’s foolish to pretend that women can’t wield weapons just as well as men can. Well, most women. You are a charming exception, your Grace,” Jon teased Daenerys.

“Oh, shut it!” said Daenerys, pushing at Jon with a laugh. “Lady Brienne just started me on the sword a few weeks ago, of course I’m rubbish! And that’s why I’ll be riding Drogon _above_ the battle — I know my skills are nowhere near suitable to be upon the ground.”

“I know, my Queen,” said Jon. “I’m just teasing. You’re cute with a sword.”

“Cute? I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her Name, the rightful Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men. I am the Unburnt, the Unbroken, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Princess of Dragonstone, the Mhysa of Meereen, the Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons, and the Liberator of Slavers Bay. I am not _cute_.”

“Yes you are,” grinned Jon as he pulled her into a kiss then tugged her in front of him, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder.

They stood in silence for a long time, often looking towards the east to see if the sun had risen yet, but otherwise just watching over the beautiful, stark lands before them.

“I’m glad I came here,” said Daenerys. “I’m glad I got to see where you grew up, and where you became a man. I feel I understand you better now.”

“I wish I’d seen where you grew up,” replied Jon.

Daenerys shrugged. “We moved around a lot. I did like one house though — a house with a red door in Braavos. I had my own room there. There was a lemon tree outside my window.”

“From a house with a red door to the Red Keep,” Jon said. “That’s not so bad. And if there aren’t any lemon trees, I’m sure the Lady Olenna will help you grow some.”

“I’ll need a good supply of lemons if I am ever to tempt your sister south,” agreed Daenerys.

“Sansa? She’s your Hand. She’ll have to come south.”

“Sansa won’t leave the North now she’s back in it — not for any decent length of time that is. If I know my friend, she’ll come south with us to see us crowned and wed, and then she’ll return to Winterfell and it will be a battle to get her out of the North after that. I’ll have to find a new Hand, which is going to be a pain.”

“Tyrion?”

“Tyrion won’t want to leave your sister. I’m wondering about Yohn Royce, from the Vale, or Willas Tyrell. I’d have to meet Willas first, of course, but Lord Royce gives sensible counsel.”

“Willas could be a good choice, but first we have to survive tomorrow.”

“We will. Tomorrow will be terrible, but we’ll survive, and we will entertain our children and their children for years to come with stories about how we fought to save the realms of men.”

They fell into silence again, and the sky began to lighten with the false dawn. _It’s now or never,_ thought Jon.

“If you look through the records of the Watch you’ll find men from every noble house in Westeros. Even the Targaryens,” he began picking up an earlier thread of conversation as he once again rested his chin on Daenerys’ shoulder, looking past her to where the sun would soon rise. “When I first joined our Maester, Maester Aemon, was a Targaryen. He was Aegon’s older brother — you know, the Aegon who squired for Ser Duncan the Tall? Aemon joined the Maesters when he was young, and after his older brother died he joined the Night’s Watch to make sure no one could make him take the crown.”

“He was my...great-uncle?” asked Daenerys, curious. 

“He was. Most didn’t know who he was — Maesters give up their family names when they take their orders, and he lived to be over a hundred. Those who could remember his origins were long dead by then. I only knew because he told me.”

“Was he the only Targaryen in the Night’s Watch?”

“Sam would know for sure, but I know of one other — me.”

“You? You’re not a Targaryen. We’re not married yet.”

“I don’t need to marry you to be a Targaryen,” said Jon, his heart in his mouth as he gently tugged Daenerys around to face him, and took her hands with his own. “I’ve always been one. Ned Stark wasn’t my father — he was my uncle. Lyanna Stark was my mother, and Rhaegar Targaryen was my father. My true father. He didn’t abduct and rape her — they loved each other and ran away together. They wed in secret, and after Rhaegar fell at the Trident she had a son. Robert would have murdered the babe if he ever found out, and Lyanna knew it. So the last thing she did, as she bled to death on her birthing bed, was give the boy to her brother Ned Stark to raise as his bastard.”

Daenerys tried to pull her hands back. “No,” she breathed.

“Yes,” Jon said, holding firm. “The babe was me.”

“No,” said Daenerys as she shook her head. “It can’t be.”

“It can be, and it was. The name my mother gave me was Aegon Targaryen.”

“Who told you this?”

“Bran, and Sam. And Jaime Lannister — he worked it out from the Kingsguard records. Howland Reed confirmed it when I asked — he was at the Tower of Joy where my mother died and Ned Stark took me. Sansa knows as well — Jaime told us both at the same time.”

“Sansa?” asked Daenerys, her voice cracking. “She didn’t tell me.”

“She wanted to, but it was my secret to tell. I swore her to secrecy.”

“You’re the last male Targaryen, the son of the Crown Prince,” said Daenerys, hysteria tingeing her voice. “Your claim...your claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than mine.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You might not have a choice. When the nobles of Westeros find out…”

“They don’t have to find out.”

Daenerys shook her head. “They’ll find out. Too many people know already.”

“It doesn’t have to change anything,” said Jon. “We can still marry, and you can still be Queen. I love you. I’ll yield to you, always.”

“You didn’t bend the knee when you were a Stark bastard. What makes you think you’re going to bend the knee now? You’re beloved here, Jo- _Aegon_. And you’re a man. I know enough about the nobles of Westeros to know they’d prefer a man they know on the throne to a woman they don’t — especially if that woman has dragons.”

“Daenerys -” Jon broke off what he was going to say, dread rising in his stomach. Behind Daenerys, to the east, the first rays of the sun were rising.

Below them, in the dark of the woods beyond The Wall where they’d sent their scouts, a horn blew three times.

The dead were upon them.

* * *

Sansa pulled Tyrion into a desperate kiss as their friends headed from the hall for their positions at a run. “Stay safe, my lord.”

“And you, my lady,” he said, clinging to her hand.

“We have to go,” said Jaime, and with a final look, Sansa turned and left her husband standing in the hall.

They walked briskly out to the courtyard where Viserion was stirring, men streaming around his bulk and through the tunnel to prepare for war beyond The Wall.

Ghost was already heading towards the tunnel, but Lyanna stopped for Sansa. Sansa pressed her head to her direwolf’s, and took the mental sidestep she needed to talk to Lyanna.

_Stay safe, little one,_ Sansa said. _And keep Ghost safe too if you can._

_This wolf will keep that wolf safe,_ Lyanna promised. _This wolf wants pups, so this wolf can be like the mistress._

Sansa blinked in shock, and Lyanna licked her face before trotting off after Ghost.

“Your highness, we must go,” said Jaime, and Sansa clambered to her feet.

“Yes, of course,” she said absently, her mind still thinking about what her wolf had said, leading him and Davos to Viserion. They were joined by a handful of others, including Rickon and Brigette and some of the other young people who were to serve as runners, as well as some of the Ironborn who were particularly long-sighted.

The cream and gold dragon flew them atop The Wall, where Jon and Daenerys were already waiting, Rhaegal and Drogon perched beside them.

“Lord Jaime,” nodded Daenerys as Jaime dismounted from Viserion. “You have the command.”

There was something off about her tone, and Sansa was concerned for her friend, but there was no time to check with her now.

Jaime nodded and drew out his spyglass. “They’re moving slowly. We have time to get into position. Ser Davos, to the left; Ser Barristan, to the right. Proceed as we discussed yesterday, and I’ll signal if there is to be any change.”

The two older men nodded and left for their positions, a few runners and look outs trotting along with them.

They watched as the Dothraki formed up at the front of their ranks, the masses of men and horses moving into position behind them. 

In the distance, everything was still, then out of the treeline rode a single figure. Even from this distance Sansa could see her red hair. “Who on earth?”

Jaime peered through his spyglass and shrugged. “It’s a woman in a red cloak, that’s all I can make out.”

Jon took the spyglass and gulped. “It’s Melisandre, Stannis’ Red Priestess. What the hell is she doing here?”

“She was at Dragonstone soon after I arrived,” said Daenerys. “She told me that the prince who was promised would bring the dawn. And then Missandei gave us both a grammar lesson, pointing out that a more correct translation would be that the ruler who was promised would bring the dawn — either a prince or a princess.”

Sansa smiled to remember that. It had been that day that Daenerys had bid her to send a raven north to summon who they had assumed was a pretender. She hoped that Missandei, stationed below with the Tietäjätär and Maesters ready to tend to the wounded as much as they could, would be safe, and that she’d be able to see her friend once again.

“ _There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him,_ ” said Jon.

Everyone looked at Jon, startled, and he shrugged. “The nights are long up here and a good story helps pass the time. The legend of Azor Ahai was one Maester Aemon would tell often — if we asked him politely enough.”

_Melisandre raised Jon from the dead not even knowing he was a Targaryen,_ thought Sansa. _Could he be the prince who was promised? And what does that mean for Daenerys?_

“Prophecies are dangerous things,” murmured Jaime. “What in the seven hells is she doing?”

They watched as the small figure stopped in front of the small figure they knew to be Ser Jorah. After a short conversation, the Red Woman rode forward and grasped the arakh of the nearest Dothraki. 

Sansa shared a puzzled look with Jon, and then turned her head back in time to see the arakh burst into flame — and then another, and another, until every Dothraki was holding a flaming arakh high above his head. 

Melisandre rode past the Dothraki and through a gap in their lines, and Daenerys gasped. 

“Look!”

A line of men had emerged from the trees, and Jaime took his spyglass back from Jon. “It’s the dead.”

He nodded at Rickon, who unfurled the red and black banner of House Targaryen.

The Dothraki charged, and they could hear their yells at the top of The Wall as the horse lords of Essos charged the dead, their flaming arakhs held high above them.

The Dothraki reached the line of the dead and even from this distance they could see the dead catch fire and fall. 

_Maybe we can win after all,_ thought Sansa, and then kicked herself for thinking too soon as a low roiling cloud of fog pushed through the trees and enveloped the fighting men.

They could still see the shining lights of the Dothraki’s arakhs through the fog, but one by one they flickered out.

“No,” breathed Daenerys in horror. She made to mount Drogon but Jon caught her arm.

“The Night King is coming. We have to wait for him.”

Daenerys pulled her arm back, her lips white with rage. “The dead are already here. The Dothraki came here because of me — I have to save as many as I can.”

She climbed aboard Drogon but Sansa yelled “Wait!”

Sansa pointed, to where some of the Dothraki and their horses were running back towards their lines. The army of the West let them through their lines, so Sansa imagined they were still living.

An unearthly shriek split the air, and the cloud of fog rolled forward. Jaime swore and signaled to Rickon, who hung the banner of House Lannister over the edge of The Wall with a green sash over it. Along The Wall Ser Davos was displaying the crowned stag of the Baratheons, also with the green sash, and Ser Barristan the golden rose of House Tyrell. It was the signal for the next wave of fighters to ready themselves for combat, and for the commanders on the ground to signal the attack when ready.

The shrieking sound reached a crescendo when the cloud collided with the front ranks of men, and from the screams of men, horses and steel the watchers atop The Wall knew the battle had been joined in full. 

“Your Graces, your Highness — mount up. See if you can burn off some of that fog, but try and stay away from our men. We need to see what they are doing, not kill them ourselves.”

Daenerys, already mounted on Drogon, took off at once and Sansa and Jon were only a few moments behind her.

The cold wind tore at Sansa’s face along with stinging ice, and she put her head down and urged Viserion onwards. In front of them, Drogon was already sending gouts of flame at the ground, and Viserion and Rhaegal soon joined in. The three dragons looped around and through the army of the dead for what seemed like an eternity, but it was hard to see if they were making any difference. 

From what Sansa could see as she flew nearer to their lines, they were pushing back against the dead. The fog seemed to be further away from The Wall than she remembered, and it looked like the Unsullied in the center were in danger of outpacing the calvary on either side of them.

She turned her head to see Drogon give a concerted blast of fire in one spot, and wondered if Daenerys had found the Night King.

The battle stilled for a moment, the dead freezing in their tracks, and the men and women fighting them paused as well, gasping as much air as they could.

Then the dead started moving again — including those that the Unsullied had killed as they’d fought their way through the dead.

The Unsullied were surrounded, cut off from their retreat, and Sansa bent low across Viserion’s neck, hoping she and her dragon could get there in time.

* * *

“I wonder how it’s going?” asked Tyrion, hearing the distant cries of battle from beyond The Wall. A steady trickle of injured men had been making their way through the tunnel for the healers, but not as many as Tyrion would have expected given the size of their army and the enemy they were facing.

“Probably not well,” said Meera, testing the string of her bow. “No battle ever goes well.”

Theon finished stringing his bow and turned to Bran. “Bran...if this is to be our last night I just want you to know...I wish...the things I did -”

“Everything you did brought you where you are now,” said Bran, his eyes turning from the sky to look at Theon. “And where you are now is where you belong. Fighting with us, not against us. You’re a good man, Theon Greyjoy. It’s taken you time to become one, but you have. You will advise your sister wisely. Lady Meera,” he called, and Meera turned to face him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for Jojen, and Hodor, and Summer, and all of it. And I’m thankful for you. I couldn’t have done it without you. Remember the Children's song? House Reed has always been a loyal friend to House Stark, and none more loyal than you."

He turned his head to face Tyrion. “Good luck, goodbrother. You’re going to need it, but they will be fine. All of them. And Sam — plant trees between the dragons. They will grow strong.”

Bran looked at each of them in turn, and nodded. “I’m going to go now.”

“Go where?” asked Theon, but Bran didn’t answer.

Instead, his eyes turned white, and the defenders of the Three-Eyed Raven shrugged at each other and held their weapons at the ready.

* * *

In the end, it was Rhaegal who enabled the rescue of the Unsullied — he was far more accurate with his fire than Viserion. Once the Unsullied were melting through the Free Folk and the Hill Tribes who had come forward to relieve them, Sansa pulled Viserion up, and she and Jon headed to the top of The Wall to regroup with General Lannister.

“We can’t see a fucking thing,” growled Jaime, throwing his spyglass to the side. “Not a fucking thing. They’re completely shrouded in that fucking fog. Well, apart from the giants, that is.”

The giants were the only thing truly visible, moving here and there with the fog swirling around their thighs. 

“We need to get down there,” said Jaime. He turned to Ser Davos and Ser Barristan, who had come along The Wall to where Jaime was speaking to Sansa and Jon. “Send your runners down the stairs — I won’t take children into this battle if I can avoid it. Ser Davos, go with them and keep them safe.”

Sansa thought she could see relief on the old knight’s face, and realised that although he carried a sword she’d never seen him in the practice yards.

“Your Grace, your Highness — take the rest of us down,” Jaime continued. “If this battle is to be won, it will be won on the ground. We can fight, and so we must fight.”

The sound of wings warned them and they moved to the side to let Drogon land, Davos ushering the young runners towards the stairs to help make room.

“Dragonfire won’t kill him,” said Daenerys as she dismounted. “Drogon hit him with everything he had and the Night King just walked straight through it.”

“Shit,” Jon cursed, closing his eyes. 

“Now what?” asked Sansa, not even bothering to hide the fear in her voice.

“Wildfire,” said Jaime. “It’s our last chance. Dragonfire, from what I’ve seen is just normal fire, for all it comes from a dragon. It behaves the same once it’s in the world. Wildfire — wildfire doesn’t act like normal fire.” His voice sounded very flat, and very far away. He shook his head and blinked a few times, offering a sickly-looking smile when Sansa laid a concerned hand on his arm.

“The wildfire is at the base of The Wall,” said Jon.

“Then we’ll go down there and load it upon the dragons,” said Daenerys. “Once each dragon is in the air I’ll unplug the barrels so the wildfire can drench the dead — and once the barrels are empty I’ll take the dragons as high as we can go, as fast as we can go. Hopefully the fire won’t reach us.”

“It’s suicide!” snapped Jon. “Nothing can survive wildfire.”

Daenerys smiled. “Fire cannot kill a dragon,” she said, her voice firm. “Which is why you cannot come with me, Sansa — nor you, Jon.”

“If fire cannot kill a dragon -” Jon started to say, but Daenerys shook her head.

“You’re half a wolf, Jon. You have their ice in your veins along with our fire, and I don’t want to learn that the ice can burn — not like this.”

“Could the dragons do it without you?” asked Sansa. “I know them. I know how smart they are.”

Daenerys nodded. “They probably could, but they are my children. And I will not ask them to fight a battle I am not willing to fight alongside them. We’ll burn the Night King together, my children and I.”

Jon stared at Daenerys so intensely that Sansa felt awkward watching them together, and turned her gaze to the battle below them.

“What if you burn, my love?” Jon asked from behind her. It sounded like he had taken Daenerys into his arms. “What will I do without you?”

“You’ll live, Jon Snow. Aegon Targaryen. Whatever name you take. You’ll live, and you’ll be the best king the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen — or I’ll come back from the afterlife to roast you alive,” her queen said, her voice cracking as she tried to make the joke. “Look after our people, my King in the North. Break the wheel, and rebuild the world like we talked about.”

Though her head was still turned, Sansa could hear the sounds of them embracing, and her heart broke for her brother and her friend. She hoped that Daenerys was right, and that not even wildfire could kill a dragon. But that it could kill the Night King.

“Dany…” said Jon, his voice cracking.

“I once told you that justice is what kings and queens are for, my love. But sometimes we need to offer more than the strength of our justice. We the strength need to offer ourselves.”

“Sometimes strength is terrible,” murmured Jon. “I don’t want you to go.”

“And I don’t want to go. But I must.”

“We should go,” said Jaime firmly. “Let’s get this plan into action before we lose any more men.”

The remaining Ironborn and Jaime climbed aboard Viserion along with Sansa, and as she directed her dragon to take off, Sansa looked back and saw Jon and Daenerys separate from their embrace and climb aboard their own beasts.

They flew down and landed at the base of The Wall.

* * *

“Bran? Bran!” yelled Meera, and Tyrion turned to face the Three-Eyed Raven.

Although Bran’s eyes were still white, a thin trail of blood was coming from his nose, and Meera was frantically trying to mop it up.

Her leathers weren’t doing much good, and Tyrion quickly ripped some of his undershirt and gave it to her.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Meera, clearly terrified. “I’ve never seen him like this. The eyes, yes, but not the blood.” 

Sam gently but firmly pushed her out of the way. “Let me see.”

His hands were efficient and sure as he tilted Bran’s head one way, and then the other. He laid his head on Bran’s chest, and reached for his wrist.

Eventually, Sam shrugged. “I’m sorry, my lady, but...I’m not sure what is happening. His eyes aren’t reacting to light, but his breathing is steady and so is his pulse.”

“What can we do?” asked Theon.

“Wait,” said Sam.

* * *

“How are you going to get from dragon to dragon?” asked Sansa as she held Viserion’s head steady as several of the Unsullied clambered about on her dragon, securing the barrels of wildfire.

“I’m going to jump,” said Daenerys. “And trust my children to catch me.”

“Maybe you don’t need to,” said Sansa. “Maybe we can rig something up that will slowly release the wildfire without you having to do it.”

Daenerys shook her head. “I won’t risk my children and not myself. You’ll understand one day,” she said with a sad smile. “Oh, Virzeth Veri. You’ve come a long way — we both have. I’m glad to have known you.”

“This isn’t goodbye, khaleesi. I refuse to believe this is goodbye,” said Sansa, choking back her tears as she pulled Daenerys into a tight hug. “You’ll come back to us, I know you will.”

“I will make every effort to,” said Daenerys, clinging to Sansa. “By the Old Gods and the New, I’ll come back.”

Sansa nodded, and turned to check the straps on Viserion one more time. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the Unsullied, it was just...he was her dragon. And her friend. There wasn’t much Sansa could do, but she could check the straps one more time. Especially that small one on the left — it’s buckle was nearly worn through. _I’ll have to replace that when Viserion gets back,_ she thought. She tightened it anyway.

“This seems like a very bad plan, cousin,” said Brienne as she approached. She was smeared with ash and dirt and blood, but was still moving freely. “Send me instead. You’re the Queen, you’re far more important than me.”

“No, cousin,” said Daenerys, extracting herself from Sansa and laying her hand on Brienne’s wrist. “I am the Unburnt, the Unbroken, the blood of Old Valyria. This is my plan, and my choice. I will not ask it of any other.”

“You’re not asking,” said Brienne. “I’m offering.”

“Thank you for your offer, cousin, but no. I will go; no one else. I shall come back, never fear.”

Brienne sighed, and unbuckled her sword belt. “Then take my sword, cousin. It’s name is Oathkeeper. I pray that you keep your oath and come back to us.”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I can fight with a mace just as well, my Queen. You might be terrible with a sword, but at least it’s a weapon you’ve used before.”

Daenerys nodded and Brienne settled the sword belt around her waist, cinching it as tight as she could. Daenerys chuckled.

“I feel like I am Visenya Targaryen come again,” she joked, and pulled Brienne into a hug. “Be safe, cousin.”

Turning to the Unsullied, Daenerys ordered all who had handled the barrels to make their way through the tunnel and wash. Although they’d tried to be careful, the odd splash had leaked here and there, and it was safer for all who had handled the wildfire to be south of The Wall when it ignited. Sansa checked herself, and saw some was on her gloves. She carefully pulled them off and dropped them to the ground, the cold immediately stinging her hands and stiffening her fingers. She flexed them to keep them limber, and pressed a kiss to Viserion’s muzzle.

“Be safe,” she murmured to her dragon. “Come back and you shall have lemoncakes every day for the rest of your life.”

“Valar morghulis, khaleesi,” said Sansa, bowing low to Daenerys.

“Valar dohaeris, Lady Stark,” she responded, urging Rhaegal up into the sky.

Viserion nuzzled her and took to the sky along with Rhaegal and Drogon. Sansa watched as long as she could, but the fog and it’s stinging hail and snow meant that was only a few seconds.

She drew Bright Roar and turned to Brienne. “Jon, Ser Brienne. Shall we rejoin the fight?”

Jon looked worried, but nodded and turned towards the fight. “Good hunting, Sansa.”

“I love you, brother. I’ll see you on the other side.”

The fight was _awful_. It was desperate, unyielding work. Wave after wave of the dead threw themselves at the living, sounding an unholy shriek as they clawed at the defenders of the realms of men. Sansa soon lost track of who she was fighting alongside in the thick fog, her focus narrowed only to those fighting against her.

She stumbled over a body and one of the dead seized her, only to slump against her when a Dornishman stabbed it through the back with his dragonglass pike. Sansa nodded her thanks, absently wondering if there was any heavy cavalry left to back them as Jaime had said there must be, then recoiled as a spear of ice was thrust through the Dornishman’s back.

He dropped to his knees, his eyes wide and staring, and behind him was a man made of ice.

Sansa was fairly sure this wasn’t the Night King — there was no crown of thorns growing from his head — but still. This man wasn’t one of the dead she had been fighting — his skin was shrivelled and looked as dry as old jerky, his hair was long, wispy and white, and his armour was unmarked.

His limbs were whole and his eyes glowed with blue fire, and Sansa grabbed her terror and used it to goad her into the attack. 

“Winterfell!” she yelled as she leapt at him, bringing Bright Roar up, but he got inside her guard somehow. He blocked her arm with his and it was like hitting steel; her hand spasmed and she dropped her sword. He reached out and grabbed her other hand, pulling her off the ground, and ice started to spread from his grip up and down her arms. Sansa howled when the ice reached the exposed skin of her hands, and the pain of her ring freezing on her finger was unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

She struggled desperately, her legs flying out to try and kick the dead man holding her still, when he shattered into thousands of pieces of ice.

She landed on her hands and knees, the shards of ice cutting deep into her palm, and looked up to see her rescuer.

“What do we say to the God of Death?” asked Inigo, panting as he offered her a hand up.

“Not today,” responded Sansa. “Thank you.”

Inigo stooped to pick up Bright Roar, but then looked at Sansa’s hands. Her palms were a bloody mess from the shards of ice she had landed on, and her finger was black above her ring.

“You’re done here,” he said. “Go and see the healers.”

Sansa wanted to protest, but when she tried to make a fist the pain in her hands made her cry out and stop immediately. She nodded at Inigo. “Look after that sword, my friend. It is my husband’s, and I mean to give it back to him.”

A shriek above them caused the living to look up, the fog clearing just enough for them to see Viserion spiraling down to the earth, his wings fluttering uselessly, a spear through his breast.

* * *

Blood was coming from Bran’s other nostril as well now, joined by a thin line from his mouth.

“Do something!” yelled Meera at Sam, who was frantically trying to wipe the blood away.

“There’s nothing I can do!” he said as the others watched helplessly while an ever increasing stream of injured men came through the tunnel.

* * *

“Viserion!” Sansa screamed, trying to fight her way through to get to her dragon, her wonderful dragon who loved lemoncakes and scratches behind his head and had flown her around the world and was endlessly patient with Lyanna, but Inigo grabbed her and pulled her back. “Let me go! I have to go! I have to save him!”

“He’s dead, Sansa!” yelled Inigo, doubling over in pain as Sansa slammed her elbow into his ribs in a desperate effort to get away. “If the spear didn’t kill him the fall would have!”

“No! He can’t be dead! Viserion!” she screamed, managing to win free, but then others were grabbing her and pulling her back towards The Wall. “Let me go! Let me go! I am Princess Sansa Stark and I command you to _let me go!_ ”

They ignored her and continued to drag her backwards, and Sansa saw the same fate befall Rhaegal — a spear through his breast caused the green dragon to plunge towards the earth, spiralling helplessly down before hitting the ground with a thump that she could feel from this distance. Drogon was the only dragon left flying, and through the haze of smoke and fog and hail she could still see a small white figure clinging to his back.

“Daenerys!” she screamed, and a third spear plunged through Drogon, sending him too spiraling towards the ground, streams of unexploded liquid wildfire trailing behind him. Given the number of small fires on the ground, Sansa had no idea how it hadn’t caught yet.

“We have to light the wildfire,” said Jon where he found her near the mouth of the tunnel, still struggling against the men holding her back. “Sansa, stop. They’re gone. They’re all gone.”

“No! They can’t be!” she said, begging and pleading with the Gods to make it not so. “Jon -”

“Sansa,” he said, his voice firm. “It’s over. The dragons have fallen. Our best hope is to get as many men through the tunnel as possible then ignite the wildfire. Sound the retreat,” he said to one of the men standing near them, who nodded, took a swig from his flask and began to blow on his horn.

Slowly their army turned towards them, men and horses forming a mass to push through the tunnel. Beyond them, Sansa could just see the Unsullied standing firm, guarding their retreat.

“Will they not retreat?” she asked Grey Worm, who stood near them.

He shook his head. “She broke our chains, and we chose to serve her. She gave herself to save the world — how can we do anything different? We will hold the dead back as long as we can.”

A shriek to their left caused their heads to snap around, Sansa’s eyes widening in horror as she recognised through the fog and snow the small figure held in a giant’s grip on the far side of their lines, their retreating army between the group of commanders and the giant.

“Lyanna!” screamed Brienne as she started to push her way through the scramble of men fighting to make their way through the tunnel. Sansa saw Brienne stumble and fall beneath their own desperate troops just as Lyanna pulled her hand back and stab the giant through the eye, causing it to collapse, the Lady of Bear Island falling alongside it.

“The Lord of Light has brought us here,” said Melisandre from behind them, and they all spun to see the Red Priestess, her face free of ash and soot, her hair and clothing unmussed.

Sansa was suddenly very aware of the dirt and blood that covered herself, and wondered how the woman had managed it. And also where she’d come from, given none of them had seen her approach.

“We will light the dragonfire,” the Red Priestess continued as she gestured behind her to where the men who had been in the cell with the Hound stood. The one with an eyepatch held a flaming sword, while the other’s dragonglass sword gleamed with reflected light. “When your men are safe, we shall light it. R’hllor has shown me that this is the way.”

Jon looked troubled, but nodded. “If you are sure?”

“The Lord of Light has brought us here,” she repeated, turning away from them and walking towards the fight.

The last few men were entering the tunnel, including Ser Jorah cradling a small body in his arms, and Jaime broke off from them to come over.

“They’ll light the wildfire?” asked Jaime, bent over and panting.

“Aye, they volunteered,” said Jon.

“Then we’re the last ones. Through the tunnel, now.”

“The Unsullied -” began Sansa, but Grey Worm shook his head.

“Dracarys!” he yelled, running to join his men as Jaime and Jon helped Sansa towards the tunnel.

* * *

The retreat was in full force, Tyrion realised. The flow of men and horses — many of them uninjured though liberally coated in ash and blood and dirt — was proof of that.

They’d tugged Bran and his chair out of the way of the retreating men to underneath one of the Castle Black’s walkways, and Tyrion had scrambled up the stairs, hoping he’d be able to see Sansa, or Jaime, or Jon from that height.

He didn’t see them anywhere.

Below him, blood was also now pouring from Bran’s eyes and ears, and Sam and Meera were desperately trying to stem the flow.

Bran shook violently, his eyes still white, and screamed “Dracarys!”

* * *

Sansa and Jon made it to the tunnel, and Sansa leaned her shoulder against it to hold herself upright as Lyanna and Ghost trotted past, the direwolves showing signs of battle but moving freely.

Jon and Jaime had halted behind her at the mouth of the tunnel to help a man who was slowly dragging himself to safety, his legs badly broken.

He looked up as they reached him and Sansa realised it was Oberyn Martell.

She heaved at the ropes holding the gate of the tunnel opening, screaming as the rough fibers of the rope dug deep into her already ruined hands. Grey Worm and the last of the Unsullied were still fighting the dead, and when she yelled at them to retreat they ignored her.

Then the world exploded into fire and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also lbswasp on tumblr if you want to come and say hello 👍


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